

< 1 , 

.i,S* 



Glass 'T^.Z 3 

Bod? _jE ^ 


COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 





' ( 







\, 


>« 




A NEW DEPABTUBE ! 

We desire to call attention to the new publication entitled 



which is issued monthly, and each number of which con- 
tains several complete stories by first-class popular authors, 
among whom are Charles Dickens, Bertha M. Clay, Mrs. 
Henry Wood, Miss M. E. Braddon, and others of equal 
reputation. Never before in the history of cheap litera- 
ture has so much reading matter been offered for the mo- 
iVey, ^iis each one of the stories in each number, published 
in b^ok form, would cost from $1.00 to $1.50, and we are, 
/therefore, offering at least 

/ $3.00 WORTH FOR ONLY 30 CENTS. 

This is a wonderful statement, but none the less /tuc, and 
we desire to call your attention to the fact that it is print- 
ed on handsome white paper, from new large type, so as 
to be easily read. It is neatly bound in heavy paper cover, 
with beautiful design, and printed in handsome colors. 

CONTENTS OP NUMBER ONE. -the Octoroon, by Miss M. E. 
Braddon; Hilary's Folly, by Bertha M. Clay, author of Bora Thorne, 
Ninety-nine Choice Readings and Recitations, compiled by J. S. 
Ogilvie ; Chunks of Fun — illustrated with twenty-two wood engrav- 
ings— cut out and prepared for the public by “Ike Philkins"; Nat 
Foster, the ^ )Ston Betective, by Harry Rockwood. 

CONTi^NTS OP NUMBER TWO.— John Jago’s Ghost, by Wil- 
kie Cbllins ; The Bream Woman, by Wilkie Collins ; Letty Leigh, 
by Bertha M. Clay, author of Bora Thorne ; The Missing Letter, by 
JVIrs. Henry Wood, author of East Lynne ; Ninety-nine Choice Read- 
ings and Recitations, corhpiled by J. S. Ogilvie; Mugby Junction, by 
Charles Bickens; Phil Scott, the Indian Betective, by Judson R. 
Taylor. 

CONTENTS OP NUMBER THREE.— Bora Thorne, by Bertha 
M. Clay ; “Cash Seventeen,” by Sophy S. Burr ; Little Faith, by Mrs. 
O. F. Walton, author of Christie’s Oid Organ; Mrs. Caudle’s Curtain 
Lectures, by Bouglass .Terrold; The Sad Fortunes of Rev. Amos Bar- 
don, by George Eliot; A Christmas Carol, by Charles Bickens; Gems 
for Christmas, by Grandmother Amel, containing Bialogues. and 
Charades suitable for anv occasion. 

We want Agents everywhere to introduce this publication and se. 

. cure subscribers, to whom we offer hberal inducements. 

The subscription price of this publication is $3.50 per year of twelve 
Numbers. A copy of any Number will be sent to any address, b^ 
mail, post-paid, on receipt of 30 cents, , Address. all subscriptions and 
orders to J. S. OGILVIE & CO., Publishers, 

V. O. Box 2767. 31 Rose Sti^eet, Net Vouk. 


• ■' •; 






‘x 


\ 


^ A 


/* 


•’ »• *. 




• ’ ♦ ■* 






. ^sit 

• * A - • 1 


9 




■\ - / 


«, , 

« 




>-* 

- 

' 

*•' , ^ 

/ fc,- 

i- ^ ' 

.'f^'" '-A 



yJ(V 

'•/ A 

t 

-t.*" '*- ; 


:.^-S.A,v 

'' '.f 

‘"2^AX‘ 










./ ^:, 


* “ A" 

j- 


■ < ' 


A , 

■'<. 


■' 




•'•y'v 


^ ^ >\ . 


•■f 


' t, 




V % '« 


:..v 


i ' - *■• 


■/— 4*> *• - 

• ' ••*•.•■ ’ :- .-'i 




• ^ - .^. w-t, - 

■ J . ' .1 

: "‘ '• -■’Xv'^ : 

‘ S ■■; '*-r-''‘ 


•A -^- ^ 


* • "t I 


• -V 


. M • • '-• •■ » 


- < • » 

' ;i • 


*.L> 


':r 


.•"yf 


-t H; ‘/ ' ■- "■ti *>■• I ■' ■ , ■ "^ •■'•['■ . v.* - . 

- vX^v:-. 




•- 

, • . . ■'« ^• . 




-» i 




/ ’ • 


• - , 




j;.; ' 


■ i , ■''■■ .'■•• !S«'i '■ 


- ■-• - - JL<9^ ^ 

. 5^ . . 




-*♦ > ' %' 




'•■•-?' ' ^ .V'V '*? ■• -I 

r..jv> ■ . 




>»•> .••• 
» 



■■.A- 


•y^ •. 


>■ •. 




y'i^'i 


.» V . -•.‘. 




V. 


A 

^ ■•■!^^ >>. M* 

iLV.h ^ ^• 


:.V • w ‘ ..^.‘ A'-' '•'‘-••‘i . A ' 

^ ' '* •• -A’ 1 >*>V * ^ -* • 

.-(- >.fv •' ■. . v*>--f ’. , ^ ^ - .AT ♦ ' 


AS 


\ ■ 







.f. ■*' 

» 


y.- 

«<• 


• I • * ' 


. •. ; ;A: 

- ' T * ' 


\ ■; 


1 » 


•x4 


,?4 •-':v- •'• 


rT> "• •-• ' 

!^’. . . '. 


51'-^ 

-* . 

• V-* . > -,■•#■ 


- v v •!; 


. -i- 




# /• 
♦* ' 

a; . 


^i- 


*'•■ rf. < ■ , ' 

‘‘a '■ a 

• •- . ■:■ J -■ i’ , ■■ ,r *rAJA ■. 


^ .-L-^ 




•'V • /r:^ - 


i . - 

/ 

^! ■ 





' A- 


■ ■ * Jf- • • ' 


'• • ;,f -i' W 


, • ■* ; ’ ;, ■=*-r' I %..' 

I ' Aiv - .'~'% 


' ^ . ’i < ,- ' 

■ 'i . .• * ••‘‘r' 


’ ■> •>• , ^ 




** 

:r 


.i'! 


■rs.** •-• .' 


A' . \* 



V .' ' I'.;. ^ r-'.. - ' 


.Vi. TT-V 

' ••'T " - ■ ->‘ ■■^■■' ' ' ■* ■ 

<■ ■ - ^ ■ '. . .. ■ --.W-'.-' - 

s - *-,..■ V-. A' - >'. 

u V-; 


•'A' 

.^ . ' I. ». 


.:.. L. .•• . 


ft 








• i 


'..' • \-' 


s > 




'A -•■>* -■> . 


’ »^.I ,• ' . '■- v> . . 


, <■ ., - 




!«§ 

■ >■ •' * -• ' ■ ■■' •■ . : . ',/ -.v' . 

r ■ ■ V “■ 




) 






, ►»■ 


/ 


'- V. 




.A. 


rr ri- 


iL5<: 




r*" 




1 . /- 

X r ^ ■ •'•'. W, • 

. > . • ^ * • • i - -^ . • 


"... 

J,/ . • 


■; 


-^:^.A-;r. .’ ‘1-, .V.,,, - . . A 



. •’ •‘- • .V. 


V . 




) 


'A. 


' A — 









L*-? • . '. . - r , , ‘.■^. -• • ^ « --. ' -/ CE« 

«- . • V. • . , ; .• . . ' «.:^. - - . > .^ . « . r »,* ^ >. S - - 

- '.*'' ■ A A. . .•;X'' -■ '\- 

'■■ ’ A .,•■>■ ■“■X-_. ■^' •■ w V.:- X'- A'.I'A ■ 


’A.- 


A- A 


■ J. .'•. 


• i. 

. -V 




i;v>T. a"' . rt-- . :■ - A.. V ' ■' 


rf;- 


. .■-^A‘‘ Ar-' 









/'V '•■-'.AX.v 
■ ’ . ' ' • •• ' . >'.'•' 


t' . 










u 


" Billy's Mother,” 


/ 

MRS. A. ELMORE, 

M 


Author of Mother’s Story,” Etc. 



V 





I FEB 26 m 



New York: 


J. S. OGILVIE & COMPANY, 
31 Rose Street. 




*5 


•S 


■ 'i 




'• 

$ 





r r-'. 


'? >• 




/ 


/• 











0 


■ A* 


/ 





L •■ 




r 


\ 



Copyright, 

1884, 

By J. S. OGILVIE & CO. 




T 



.t 

t € 

C 

f « 




c 

% 

> 

% 

4 




•0 


V . 




. 



•. rv .;.;., . 






f - 



■ CvA ' '/ 






V I * 


V“., 


‘f 


X 



(j 


M 



-^ ' 








> 





t 













- H 






I • 










“Billy’s Mother.” 


BY MRS. A. ELMORE. 


CHAPTER I. 

LEASE, sir, be you named Billy ? ” 
A tremulous voice startlingly near, 
and a tremulous hand placed gently 
on his arm, produced the desired effect, ar- 
resting the hasty progress of a strikingly 
prepossessing young man, before he had 
really observed the slight figure barring his 
way. 

“ No, madam,” he answered, gently, “ my 
name is not Billy.” 

A very sad face, aged with more than 
years, looked up wistfully, as though there 
still lingered a faint hope that, after all, the 
strong handsome man might be “ Billy.” 
The thin blue hands clung nervously to each 
other, braving the chill air instead of seek- 
ing the meagre warmth offered by the worn 



billy’s mother. 


and faded shawl wrapped about the bowed 
form. 

Extreme poverty was evidenced from the 
dress and manner of the woman, while in a 
vivid contest for supremacy, determination 
and fear were at once expressed in her face. 
To put the question directly to anyone 
whom she might fancy bore a resemblance 
to the absent one was her only method of 
prosecuting a search upon which was con- 
centrated all the love of a naturally tender 
heart, as well as the hope which had buoyed 
her through a tortuous and lonely channel, 
consequently she must brave the possible 
results of her inquiries; many times, when 
the same query had been addressed to a 
man in haste, the answer had been unneces- 
sarily rude; frequently words of ridicule, 
and keen sarcasm, or coarse jeers, that the 
heartless makers mistakenly thought witti- 
cisms, had fallen on her ears from the lips 
of young men who had no reverence for age 
or sorrow ; seldom indeed had she received 
an answer dictated by becoming patience, 
or the kindness due to the poor and aged. 

On that particular day, when unknown to 
the patient searcher, the intricate wheel of 


billy’s mother. 


9 


circumstances had turned to a new combina- 
tion quite in her favor, the east wind was 
prowling about the great city in a very bad 
temper of decidedly catching tendencies, if 
one were to judge from the gruff manner 
of the men whose noses he had tweaked, 
whose hats he had pitched on one side or 
cuffed under the feet of the car horses. Dr. 
Wyckliffe had but just emerged from a cosy 
study, and had not as yet been tweaked or 
cuffed ; his usual good nature had not been 
demoralized by contact with the warring 
elements, and he waited a moment to learn 
something of his questioner. Reassured by 
the kindly face bending over her, as a sym- 
pathetic voice said : “ It is a rough day to 
be out on a search for a missing one, mad- 
am,” the little old woman explained in a 
quavering voice : “ My boy Billy, he runned 
away to sea ; you looks like him to me.” 

Instantly Dr. Wyckliffe held in his mind 
a picture of his own beautiful mother, in 
her almost princely home, and his heart 
warmed at the thought of the love she 
lavished on him, and the anxiety which his 
long absence while completing his studies 
caused her. He measured the mother-love 


lO 


billy’s mother. 


of the forlorn old woman looking at him 
with such hungry, wistful eyes, by that of 
his own mother for him, her only child, and 
his great heart throbbed with pity as he said : 
“ Billy was a foolish boy to run away from 
so good a mother as you must have been.” 

A faint smile crept over the wan face as 
she answered : “ Thank ye kindly, sir, but I 
was not good to him in one way ; I never 
made him to mind‘as he ought when he was 
a little shaver. I was giddy an’ young, an’ 
his peart ways seemed cunnin’, ye see, sir ; 
so he growed up to his own ways — more’s 
the pity for him, an’ me, too, sir.” 

The east wind found them just at that 
moment, and made a great rush around the 
corner, and catching hold of his long silken 
blonde whiskers, twisted them into the doc- 
tor’s eyes, knocked his wide-rimmed hat all 
askew, and not content with that, the rude 
fellow snatched at “ Billy’s mother’s ” old 
shawl so fiercely that the bent and rusty pin 
at her throat gave up in despair, parted 
company with its old friend, and fell into 
the gutter, while the poor little woman 
tottered on the curbstone in her efforts to 
secure her fluttering garment, and was only 


billy’s mother. 


II 


saved from falling by the doctor’s strong, 
quickly outstretched hand. 

“You must not stand here in this wind, 
my good woman,” said the doctor, as he un- 
gloved his right hand, thrust it into his 
pocket and drew out the change that chanced 
to be there. Offering it to her, he con- 
tinued : “Take this and go to that little 
restaurant, have a bowl of good hot soup 
and a cup of tea, then get home as quickly 
as you can ; I will come and see you to- 
morrow and hear all about Billy, if you will 
give me your address.” 

“ Will you ! Oh, God bless ye, sir. I 
believe ye will ; menny hez sed it an’ never 
kep’ their word, but God love ye, it’s sure I 
am ye will ; an’ thank ye, but Billy wouldn’t 
like his mother to be thought a beggar.” 

“ Never mind that bit of change; I’ll lend 
it to Billy ; when he comes back he can pay 
me,” and the doctor smiled assuringly, 

“ That he will, an be glad to do it, bless 
•ye, sir. I lives at 15 Sanger Street, four 
flights, back room, right han.” 

The feeble, wrinkled hands were clasped 
for a moment in the warmth of the doctor’s 
fur gloves ; the impulse of the great heart 


12 


billy’s mother. 


beating under his warm wraps was too strong 
to prevent that expression of sympathy, but 
before the recipient of such an unusual 
courtesy had recovered from her surprise, 
the doctor was passing down the avenue 
with long, vigorous strides. 

“ Never one on ’em did it afore,” muttered 
“ Billy’s mother,” looking at her blue hands, 
where a sense of unwonted warmth was still 
clinging, and forgetful of the advice, the 
soup, or the biting wind, she lingered on the 
curbstone gazing after the tall figure so rap- 
idly receding in the dull light of the fast- 
thickening snow storm; her face, meanwhile, 
glorified by an expression like to that of a 
devotee at the shrine where she has offered 
much, knowing that sooner or later she will 
receive much in return, and in that con- 
sciousness enjoys the peace that ever comes 
to the cheerful giver. 

“ Hello, granny, hez yer foun’ Billy ?” 
shouted a street urchin at her elbow, and in 
a tremor of fear awakened by the voice, she 
turned to hasten home, when to her dismay 
she discovered that she was surrounded by 
a number of the little Arabs who are a very 
“thorn in the flesh” to oddly dressed, de- 


billy's mother. 


13 


formed, or intoxicated pedestrians. Full 
often had Billy s mother” been the butt of 
ridicule to the embryo ruffians who are ever 
on the alert for mischief. 

Didn’t know Billy’s such a swell,” chimed 
in one. 

Proud of his mother, ain’t he? See him 
a heelin’ of it down the avenoo, to git 
away from her ! ha ! ha !” sneered another. 

Will he set ye up in Fif avnoo or Wash- 
iton Hites, granny?” inquired the first 
speaker, to all of which she made no effort 
at reply, but struggled on in the face of the 
wind. 

For once the chilling wind proved to her 
‘'a friend in need,” the boys prefering the 
shelter of a deep doorway to a chase after 
the poor victim of their untrained, half ma- 
licious '' love of fun.” 

Her tormentors having left her to pursue 
her way in peace for a time, Billy’s 
mother ” glanced at the silver pieces in her 
hand, and thought ; He said get a bowl of 
soup, but Mary Craven’ll give me ten bowls 
for that money.” So clutching the silver 
more closely she toiled on, sometimes 
brought to a stand-still in the rude embrace 


14 


billy’s mother. 


of the wind, anon hurried along with flying 
feet by the same invisible force. 

A crowd of loiterers ejected from a low 
drinking house, half crazed by the vile 
drink, and excited over the games of pool 
lost and won under the eye of the besotted 
creature who lured them in, and drove them 
out accordingly as their purses promised 
gain or loss to her, unfortunately observed 
the poor wind-wearied woman. One, who 
acted as the leader, at once opened the 
attack by exclaiming : “ Here’s for a lark 
with the old crone,” as he caught her by the 
elbows and swung her around, simulating a 
dance, while a comrade whistled the air of 
a well-known waltz. 

“ Come, now, step lively old woman,” ex- 
claimed the leader; “give us a jig or we’ll 
teach you the highland fling,” at which sally 
the crowd laughed boisterously. The thin 
shawl, released from the clinging fingers, 
fluttered away, and the breeze that lifted it 
from her shoulders spread it over a heap of 
rubbish unduly neglected by the ash-men. 
There goes yer flag of distress my beauty. 
Ain’t it too funny, boys, look ; it’s left off 
coverin’ of bones to cover ashes, ha, ha.” 


BILLYS MOTHER. 


15 


The closely clasped hand was a betrayal 
of the possession of something precious to 
her pressed against the palm, and the dis- 
covery led to the demand : “ What’s that in 
yer old fist ?” from the leader, who, ceasing 
his dance, wrenched open the chilled fingers 
and secured the prize. One, more reckless 
still than his comrades, pushed her headlong 
into a pile of much begrimed snow, still re- 
maining from a previous storm, when they 
all sped away out of sight, each eager to 
share in the spoil and smitten with a sudden 
fear that they had carried their sport to a 
dangerous extreme, jeopardizing their own 
safety if they were caught. 

A little girl, ragged and unkempt, who 
had been begging in more prosperous neigh- 
borhoods and was on her way home, shiver- 
ing with the cold and half benumbed with 
the weight of her basket, put it down and 
assisted “ Billy’s mother’’ to her feet, shook 
the snow from her clothes, and bringing 
back the strayed shawl,wrapped it about the 
bowed shoulders with womanly tact, saying 
meanwhile : “ It’s a awful sham6, that’s 
what it is. I wish I’s a cop an’ ketched 
em.” 


1 6 billy’s mother. 

“ Billy’s mother answered sorrowfully : 
“ It’s no use a ketchin on ’em ; poor folks 
like me hez no show in court agin ’em ; 
other folks comes an’ swears they’se good, 
an’ works every day, and it’s ony worse for 
us after.” 

“ I’ll give yez some o’ my bread ef yez 
want’s it ; I got lots to-day.” 

“No, thank ye, dearie, ye gits it hard 
anuff ; ye’r a nice chile, an’ when my Billy 
comes home he’ll make ye a leddy, he will. 
Good bye, dearie,” and once more the 
wearying homeward way was taken by the 
poor old woman, while the embryo Samari- 
tan tugged her heavy dirty basket towards 
her own home, thumping it against the 
chilled half-naked limbs with an indifference 
which wpuld have astonished a loving 
mother of happy, well-tended little ones. 

“ Billy’ll mek me a leddy, eh,” sighed the 
child, as she trudged along, “ a rale alive 
leddy. Then I’ll pray ivry day fer him ter 
come. Shure she manes it all, puir ould 
woman, an’ it’s no harrum to pray fer him 
an’ her,” she soliloquized, unconsciously 
laying the corner stone for a better woman- 
hood than most of her class ever realize. 


billy’s mother. 


17 


The small ambition awakened on that 
dreary day grew without ceasing, the reso- 
lutions formed were never forgotten, and 
Billy’s wandering steps were daily remem- 
bered over her poor little rosary by the un- 
trained, unloved girl-woman. 

“ Heel it, old woman, cops after ye,” 
shouted another urchin, simply for the fun 
of witnessing her flight, as “ Billy’s moth- 
er” almost reached the rickety doorway 
leading to her home. The poor woman, 
remembering the antipathy of the aver- 
age policeman to the friendless straggler 
through the streets, started as though she 
would run, grew suddenly dizzy, and fell at 
the foot of the stairs she had toiled so long 
to reach. ^An officer, more rich in human 
kindness than many of his fellows, found 
her there with a mantle of snow fast weav- 
ing about her, and recognizing her, lifted 
the slight form and bore her all the way to 
her room. With the clumsiness which men 
generally manifest when accepting such a 
duty, he fumbled about her dress, discover- 
ing her pocket at last, and in that the key 
which let him into the dreary room, where 
he laid his half-unconscious, wholly helpless 


BILLY S MOTHER. 


burden on a sadly worn bed, and hastened 
out again to summon a neighbor to the 
scene. A commanding rap brought a 
startled woman with a rugged, honest 
face to the door and the officer explained : 
“ Mrs. Cravens, Billy’s mother, poor soul, 
is done for now I think. I found her in a 
heap at the door, and carried her up ; she 
seems in an awful way, so if you will look 
to her I’ll send a doctor.” 

“ Shure, that I will, but it’ll be a good 
day fer the poor soul whin death reelly 
comes,” answered Mary Cravens, as the 
officer turned and glided down the stairs. 

Taking her child with her, “out of harm’s 
way,” and locking the door of her poor little 
home, it was but a few moments until 
“ Billy’s mother ” was aware of a womanly 
presence, and the gradually returning tide 
of life, which had almost made its last ebb. 
Mary Cravens was as poor in worldly goods 
as “ Billy’s mother,” but she was rich in 
kindly impulses, quickly roused genuine 
sympathies, and ingenious methods of 
“ making a little go a long way.” 


CHAPTER II. 


^ ^RUE to his promise, Dr. Wyckliffe 
II j climbed the four flights of narrow 
stairs leading to her room, on the day 
following that on which he had met “ Billy’s 
mother.” To his surprise, his knock sev- 
eral times repeated brought no response 
from within the dingy, broken wall, but at 
length a door opened at the farther end 
of the gloomy hall, and a woman abruptly 
inquired : 

“Wantin’ Billy’s mother?” 

“ I do, is not this her room ?” 

“ It wur — doctor ? ” 

“ I am.” 

“Well, she’s took.” 

“ Where ? ” inquired the doctor, as he ad- 
vanced toward the woman, and adopted her 
brief manner of speech as that most likely 
to elicit prompt and direct replies. 

“ Hosp’tal,” answered the woman, show- 
ing at the same time a disposition to close 
the door in the doctor’s face, but he adroit- 
ly prevented such a conclusion of his inter- 


20 


BILLYS MOTHER. 


view by making friendly advances to the 
little boy who was clinging to the woman’s 
skirts, and that precocious infant did not 
intend to be defrauded of an opportunity 
to investigate the doctor’s intentions, so he 
pertinaciously clung to the hand he had 
clasped and examined the doctor’s seal ring 
with curious if not critical eyes. The 
mother yielded her point of desiring obe- 
dience, and answered the doctor’s question 
of “ What hospital ? ” in her previous la- 
conic style. 

“ P’leece’ll tell ye.” 

“ What is her name ? ” 

“ Billy’s mother.” 

“ What other name had she ?” 

“ Never heard nothin’ else.” 

•“ What gave her that name ?” 

“ She allers stops every han’some man 
she sees, be he sailor man or no, and sez, 

‘ Please sir, be you named Billy ? my boy 
Billy runned away to sea ; you looks like 
him to me ; ’ that’s how the boys calls her 
Billy’s mother. I’ve knowed her three 
year and ain’t never heard no other name 
fur her.” 

“ How does she manage to live ? ” 


billy’s mother. 


21 



22 


billy’s mother. 


“ Minds babies fur wimmen as goes out 
to wash, mends up close for laborin’ men, 
an’ sich.” 

“ Do you think she is insane ? ” 

“ Do you mean is she crazy ? ” 

“ I do.” 

“Well then, I kin tell ye, she ain’t no- 
wise crazy, ’ceptin’ that one idee ’bout 
Billy.” 

“ How is it that she has been taken to 
the hospital to-day ? I saw her yesterday, 
she was feeble, but not ill.” 

“ She got lung fever from the damp ; 
she’s been lookin’ fur Billy these five days 
constant, in all the snow an’ slush ; some 
boys knocked her down yisterday an’ took 
some money somebody had give her ; when 
she got up she was ’feared of her life that 
the p’leece wuz goin’ to take her in fur 
beggin’, she ran, an’ fell in a faintin’ fit. 
The p’leece on this beat he knowed her, an’ 
when he foun’ her he fetched her up, an’ 
Mary Cravens, a sailorman’s widdy, as lives 
on this floor, did fur her last night, but 
Doctor Starr, as the p’leeceman sent, said 
she’d the fever aready ; this mornin’ she was 
took in the amb’lance. Mary Cravens took 


billy’s mother. 


23 


her belongens, which they ain’t much, intil 
her own room to save rint, an’ she’s gone 
to the hosp’tal to see her this minit.” 

Doctor Wycliffe laid a piece of money in 
the hand of the dirty-faced boy, and lifting 
his hat with as much deference as though 
the woman before him were mistress of a 
palace, instead of an untidy housekeeper in 
a rickety old tenement, he said, “ Thank 
you, madam,” and retraced his steps through 
the close-smelling halls, followed by a long 
list of blessings audibly prayed on him and 
his by the astonished mother of the still 
more astonished child in possession of his 
first “ big white money.” 

Entering the beer saloon in the base- 
ment, Doctor Wyckliffe inquired of the 
bartender : “ Can you tell me to what hos- 
pital Billy’s mother was taken ? ” 

“ To the Riverside ; are you a relation?” 

“ No, but I am interested in her.” 

“ I was about to say, if you were a rela- 
tion you were rather late turning up ; she 
was a very sick woman, and is most likely 
dead by now.” 

Doctor Wyckliffe bowed his thanks and 
turned to leave the place, when the bar- 


24 


billy’s mother. 


tender asked, “ Won’t you take something 
agin the cold, its a powerful cold day.” 

“ I do not need anything in your line. I 
am obliged to you for your information, 
however.” 

“ That’s nothing,” answered the man, as 
he edged around between the doctor and the 
door, “but a man of your standing ought 
to patronize a poor man ; it ain’t often. I’ll 
bet, that you find your way into a nice, cosy 
drinking place off Broadway ; here’s some 
gents would like a treat.” 

“ I am neither a drinking nor smoking 
man, and am not in favor of treating ; most 
certainly I will not be coerced into a viola- 
tion of my principles. You will please per- 
mit me to pass out at once.” 

The request was promptly complied with, 
for the doctor’s eyes held no hint of coward- 
ice in them, and his courage needed no 
false stimulant in any emergency. 

A thousand thoughts swept through his 
philanthropic brain about the temptations 
of the poor, and the net-work of evil in- 
fluences at their doors, while he was hasten- 
ing to the Riverside Hospital, where hun- 
dreds of sick and suffering human beings 


BILLY S MOTHER. 


25 


are sheltered when that beneficent adjunct 
of happiness, good health, has forsaken 
them ; a place the very name of which 
wakes a shudder in the breast of the well- 
to-do, and is a veritable sheet anchor to the 
friendless, for the door is never closed to 
the sick, no matter how low they have 
fallen, how poor and lonely and helpless 
they have become. 

The doctor’s college ticket gained for 
him ready admission through the gateway 
into the court, and thence to the wide hall, 
where an orderly confronted him. It was 
not a clinic hour, and he must make known 
his business. “The brief authority ” with 
which the little orderly was clothed was 
manifested by a very imperative “Well, 
sir, what do you want ? ” with an offensive 
accent on the pronoun. 

“ I want to see a woman who was brought 
here to-day from Sanger Street.” 

“ What name ?” 

“ ‘ Billy’s mother ’ is the only name I can 
learn for her.” 

“ We don’t take people in here without 
names,except they are found unconscious in 
the street. If she had a home she had a 
name, young man.” 


26 


billy’s mother. 


“ I have no desire to quarrel with you, 
my friend, but I have no time to waste ; the 
woman was brought here this morning in 
one of the ambulances belonging to this 
hospital, by order of Doctor Starr ; you 
will please look at your register and ascer- 
tain where she is and permit me to see her, 
or I will see the warden and obtain the in- 
formation that I desire from him.” 

The orderly very leisurely and reluctant- 
ly turned to his register, muttering some- 
thing about “ crazy capers ” and “ folks 
know so much ” ; but Doctor Wyckliffe ig- 
nored the impertinence, and waited for the 
announcement, “Well, you are correct, that 
is the name entered here ; the remarks are, 
‘ friendless, real name unknown.’ Do you 
know her ? ” 

“ I never saw her until yesterday, when 
I met her out in that storm ; I promised to 
call to-day. Learning that she had been 
brought here, I followed at once, as I am 
desirous of befriending her, if it is not too 
late ; I was informed that she was very 
near to death when removed.” 

“ She is not dead, or it would be report- 
ed here.” 


BILLY S MOTHER. 


27 


“ Then let me see her at once.” 

“ I suppose it will be all right, as you are 
a doctor ; but we don’t usually admit men 
to the women’s wards, unless they are near 
relatives.” 

He filled out a card, handed it to the 
doctor, and directed him to “Ward 9, third 
floor. East Wing.” In a few moments 
Doctor Wyckliffe’s prepossessing manners 
had won the good opinion of the nurse in 
charge of the ward, and he was very cour- 
teously conducted to the cot where “ Billy’s 
mother ” was lying in a clean white gown, 
beneath a fresh white spread. 

The orderly, meanwhile, was commenting 
in this wise : “ What lots of fools there are 
in this world ; just to think of that gay 
young medic hunting up that old woman, 
that is in nowise akin to him, and maybe 
helping to prolong her life, when she would 
be a deal better off dead.” No doubt he 
also congratulated himself on not being 
even remotely connected with the fraternity 
of foolish people condemned with the doc- 
tor. 

In “ Ward 9 ” a brighter scene was pass- 
ing, in which even the surly little orderly 
might have been willing to participate. 


28 


billy’s mother. 


“ There he is ! I knew he would come, 
and tell me of my boy Billy,” exclaimed 
the longing mother, as the doctor entered 
the ward. The thin hands were held out 
towards her visitor, and he clasped them as 
tenderly as he would those of a dear friend, 
saying at the same time, in such a glad way, 
“ Well, well, how nicely you are looking. 
I am gratified to find you so comfortable.” 

“Ye may well say comfortable, sir ; but 
it is best of all to see your own bonny face. 
I dremt of ye the long night, because of 
the kind words ye give me, bless ye, sir ; 
they wuz the first in many a day, save from 
them as wuz as sorrowful an’ poor as me.” 

“ I learned that you had a rough time of 
it after I saw you yesterday. I should have 
taken you home ; it was a terrible day for 
a woman to be out.” 

“Oh! that it wus ; but I’m n\ain fear- 
some I wuzn’t alone ; mayhap many a one 
wuz huntin’ bread for their babies.^’ 

“You have not grown selfish in your sor- 
row, I see,” said the doctor, smiling. 

“ How could I forget the sorrow of hun- 
ger to a mother with babies to feed ? ” 
queried the woman, her eyes kindling with 


billy’s mother. 29 

old-time brightness, “an’ my dear good lad 
r could never hev bin so greedy as to let 
ye go home wi’ me in that storm. I’m ust 
to rough ways lately ; I usn’t to be so poor ; 
but I can’t work much now, an’ I come 
away from the old home so as they wouldn’t 
know how poor I wuz come to be.” 

“ That was hardly a wise thing to do. If 
Billy had come in search of you he could not 
have found you.” 

“ True sir, but I wuz lookin’ out fer him, 
an’ to make no mistake — fer he’s changed 
some in looks, mayhap — I make bold to 
speak to every one who looks like him to 
me.” 

“ How long is it since Billy left his 
home ?” 

“ Nine and twenty year last Christmas.” 

“He must have been but a lad then ? ” 

“ Oh ! aye, he wuz a fine lad, sixteen year 
old, an’ a good boy, but boun’ to go to sea. 
It ’peared like I couldn’t let him go from 
me when his father wuz lost off’n his ship,an’ 
Billy but a bit of a baby in my arms, an’ 
his father never saw the face of him. When 
I wouldn’t give in to say yes about goin’ fer 
a saler he just went off without a word.” 


30 


BILLY S MOTHER. 


“ What is Billy’s other name ? ” 

“Just his father’s before him. What else 
could it be ? ” 

“ I have quite forgotten what his name 
was,” said the doctor very deliberately, as 
though endeavoring to recall the name. 

“ Oh ! aye, it wuz Billy Cochrane.” 

“To be sure, Billy Cochrane. Where 
did Billy sail from ? ” 

“ From New York, sir.” 

“ What was the name of his ship ? ” 

“ It’s all writ here ; ” and “ Billy’s mother ” 
lifted from her breast a tiny bag closely 
sewed together, and attached to a cord 
about her neck. The nurse, with ready 
fingers and sharp scissors, soon laid a 
closely folded paper in the doctor’s hand, 
which proved to be a loving, regretful letter 
from the half-repentant boy, who could not 
return except at the end of a long voyage. 
The information which the doctor sought 
was all there ; the date of sailing, port of 
destination, master’s name, and owner’s ad- 
dress. When the reading was finished and 
the necessary notes made in his memoran- 
dum book, the doctor inquired, “ Why did 
you not show this paper to some one who 


billy’s mother. 3 1 

could assist you in your search for your 
son ? ” 

“ I did show it a long time ago, but folks 
laughed at me an’ said a bad penny wuz 
sure to come back. I sewed it up in there 
so as not to lose it.” 

“ Is this the only letter you have received 
from your son ? ” 

“ The only one, sir. Many’s the time I 
asked at the post office, ’til they come to 
know my face, an’ looked so kin’ an’ sorry 
fer me, too, sir, but it wuz alus, ‘ nothin’ to- 
day.’ It fretted me beenz I couldn’t read 
eny, if so be I might hear of him, or his 
mates, or his ship, in the papers and so 
bother nobody no more. Busy folks don’t 
like to be answerin’ of questions to poor, 
ignor’nt, fearsome women, you see, sir.” 

“ It is a misfortune not to be able to 
read. I do not wonder that fact fretted 
you, and it may be largely the cause of 
your long separation from your son. He 
may have written you many letters. From 
this one I judge he loved you very dearly, 
and regretted leaving you.” 

“ Don’t you believe he will come back ?” 
was the eager inquiry. 


32 


billy’s mother. 


“ My dear good woman, if he is in the 
land of the living I will find him for you ; 
if not, I will try and learn all about him ; 
but you must remember that the work can- 
not be done in one day. It may be weeks 
before I have any news for you. You will 
need all your patience ; you must lie very 
quietly, and do exactly as these good nurses 
tell you, in order that you may be quite 
well and strong when Billy comes.” 

“ My boy Billy, my darling boy ; will he 
look like you, think ye ? ” 

The nurse could scarcely repress a smile 
at the thought of the sailor of forty-five, 
born in such humble life, looking like the 
aristocrat of half his years, but the doctor 
answered : 

“ He will look some older than I do, no 
doubt, but you may expect to see him as 
fine-looking as he was when he sailed away 
from his home.” 

“ Don’t you believe he will love his ofd 
mother yet ? ” 

“Yes, he will, you can depend on that,” 
said the nurse, as she smoothed the pillow 
and turned her head away to hide her own 
tears. 


BILLY S MOTHER. 


33 


No more information was to be gleaned 
from the uncultured mother, and Doctor 
Wyckliffe, bidding adieu to his protegd, has- 
tened from the hospital to the down-town 
offices where ship news can be obtained. 
There he learned that the “ May Queen ” 
was no longer seaworthy, her owners had 
retired from business, her master had 
shipped to a port whence there is no visible 
returning ; and no record of “ Billy Coch- 
rane, sailor,” could be found beyond that 
of his first voyage. The strong probability 
was that he had been lost in a storm when 
on his homeward voyage, as it was recorded 
that the “ May Queen” had been dismasted 
and had lost several of her crew. Only the 
names of those who returned in her could 
be found at the office of the younger firm, 
who, having become the successors of an 
honored house, still retained the old books, 
but had none of the mystical clews of 
memory — which would have been accessible 
during the existence of the original firm — 
to aid him in his search. 

“ I will not give up all hope yet,” said 
the doctor, as he donned his wide-rimmed 
hat again, and hailed an omnibus to ride up 


34 


billy’s mother. 


Broadway to his home — thinking of the 
immeasurable blessings conferred by the 
public hospitals of New York, of the un- 
limited charity of the citizens of the great" 
city — quietly repeating to himself a quaint 
poem written by a lady visitor to the same 
institution where '' Billy’s mother ” had 
found shelter: 

Weary of life/’ her pale lips sigh, 

Homeless and sick, ’tis well to die/’ 

And her face turns back to the wall — 

The wall of silent stone. 

Her lips are moving slow — 

So slow 

With prayer, and moan. 

Cool on her brow there rests a hand, 

She knows not who may waiting stand 
Anear her bed, so white and clean — 

Aye, clean, and neatly spread. 

At last her eyes uplift — 

Uplift— 

And tears are shed. 

A woman-form with kindly face — 

From unseen source the wondrous grace — 

As low she kneels beside the bed. 

The bed where runs so slow 
Life’s last and fateful ebb — 

An ebb 

That may be flow. 


billy’s mother. 


35 


Aye, flowing tide of endless life 
And peace, that comes beyond the strife ; 
How sweet the words that gently fall, 

Still fall from saintly lips. 

How sweet the smile that comes, 

Just comes — 

To her who sips, 

From mercy’s cup all brimming o’er. 

And then her feet on farther shore. 

Are pressing fast, and Oh! so far — 

So far she hears no more 
The praiseful words on earth — 

The earth 
So loved before. 

And but for these protecting walls, 

Where grace doth dwell, and wisdom calls 
With loving lips, and wondrous words — 

The words our Saviour gave — 

A soul had passed away — 

Away 

To unblessed grave. 


CHAPTER III. 


RRIVED at his study, Doctor Wyck- 
liffe, disregarding all other matters, 
thought over various plans for con- 
tinuing his search. He was becoming so 
deeply interested in the case that fellow 
students began to accuse him of inatten- 
tion to his studies ; his mother complained 
of the brevity of his letters, and friends 
with whom he had frequently passed 
social evenings wondered “ What can keep 
Doctor Wyckliffe at home?’’ He remain- 
ed at home during that evening, being en- 
gaged in the unusual task of carefully writ- 
ing out “personals ” for the daily papers of 
New York, Boston, Philadelphia and San 
Francisco, all of which were mailed with 
cash enclosures of sufficient value to insure 
several insertions. 

His next move was to interview old sea 
captains. Several trips to Newport, Na- 
hant, and other favorite haunts of retired 
officers resulted. Patiently the urbane 
doctor listened to long tales of seafaring 


billy’s mother. 


37 


days, but in none of them could he find 
a stone on which to build a pillar of hope 
regarding the possible existence of the long 
absent Billy. 

Notices were printed, and conspicuously 
posted in the hotels where sailors congre- 
gate when in port, and many were mechani- 
cally read, without any interest whatever 
in the reading of this : 

“ Notice. 

A liberal reward will be paid for the pre- 
sent address of William Cochrane, seaman, 
a native of New York, forty-five years old. 
Last heard from him on board the ‘ May 
Queen,’ of New York, John Tallman, mas- 
ter. Sailed from New York Dec. 26, 1848, 
Matters of great importance await his ar- 
rival or the proof of his death. Address 
his mother, 

Mrs. Catharine Cochrane, 

Care of J. G. Wyckliffe, 

No. — Madison Avenue.” 

That seemed to be the final move, and 
there was nothing left for him but to wait 
in patience for the result. In the tedious 
interim the neglected studies were again 


38 


billy’s mother. 


taken up, and the social hours resumed, but 
not to the neglect of the rapidly convalesc- 
ing patient in Ward 9. When Mrs. Wyck- 
liffe accused her son of a lack of his usual 
frankness about his life in the city, he was 
almost tempted, at times, to lay the matter 
before her ; but again he would hesitate, 
knowing how keen would be her interest, 
and how great her disappointment if his 
plans failed of success. 

Days had lengthened into weeks ; the 
house surgeons were talking of Mrs. Coch- 
rane’s discharge, to make room for some 
one more seriously ill ; the nurses were 
urging various excuses for her detention, 
until the long absent one was heard from 
at least, for the simple unwavering faith of 
the mother had grown into the hearts of 
the attendants and convalescents about her. 

Doctor W.yckliffe had made his usual 
daily, though brief, call at the hospital, had 
listened once more to the surgeon’s state- 
ment that Mrs. Cochrane was now able to 
take care of herself, and must be dis- 
charged ; he had also begged for one more 
day of grace, and obtained it. He was in- 
tently considering the best course to pur- 


BILLY S MOTHER. 


39 


sue in regard to his protege as he hasten- 
ed up the steps of his boarding-house, in a 
sudden deluge of chilling March rain, and 
confronted a broad-shouldered grey-headed 
man, who had evidently rung the bell, and 
was impatiently awaiting an answer to the 
summons. 

“ I beg your pardon,” said the doctor, “ I 
was in such haste to escape from the rain 
that I did not see you.” 

“ All right, sir, no apology needed,” was 
the reply of the stranger. “ The rain came 
on so suddenly and fiercely, one would need 
to hurry, and as I’m in a hurry myself, I can 
understand your case.” 

The doctor had opened the door with his 
latch-key, and they were in the hall, with 
the driving rain excluded by the ponderous 
door, before the slow-moving colored lad, 
whose duty it was, had condescended to an- 
swer the bell. 

“ I wish to see Mr. J. G. Wyckliffe,” said 
the stranger, addressing the boy. 

“ Dis be him, sah, hissef,” was the reply, 
accompanied by a sudden inspiration to 
make himself useful ; assisting the doctor 
in divesting himself of his dripping wraps. 


40 


billy’s mother. 


he cordially proffered a like service to the 
stranger, who answered, “ No, I am in haste, 
I cannot wait for ceremony.” The shining 
black face almost paled at the thought ; 
“ Mebbe he’s come to fight de doctor ’bout 
sumfin. Doctor so mighty handsome, won- 
der all de girls doan lub him, an’ make all de 
men fight dules ’bout him. I ’specs he’s in 
trubble, ef he doan look skeered ; Sumfin 
queer do, wen a man look like dat, an’ speak 
so peart to a man,” and the boy formed a re- 
solve to stand by the doctor by looking 
in at the keyhole as soon as the door should 
close and shut the two gentlemen into 
the back parlor. 

“Come into my study and be seated,” 
invited the doctor. 

“ Excuse me, sir,” was the reply, “ I am 
too wet to sit down, if I had the time ; 
my name is William Cochrane.” 

The doctor started, grasped the man’s 
hand, and exclaimed “ Impossible.” 

“ Quite possible, and a provable fact,” 
replied the stranger, smiling at the doctor’s 
eagerness. 

“ I expected to see an entirely different 
manner of man, and although I have been 


BILLY S MOTHER. 


41 


expecting you, for some vague, undefinable 
reason, I am utterly astonished at your 
sudden appearance.” 

“ I can easily establish my identity with 
the sailor boy who shipped on the May 
Queen so many years ago.” 

“ I do not doubt your word, my dear sir, 
but I thought you were fair, and of slender 
build ; you cannot wonder at my momen- 
tary doubt when such a giant asserts the 
right to the place I had given to a different 
ideal.” 

“ I understand the situation, sir; no won- 
der you are surprised ; but now to the busi- 
ness in hand. I received a telegram this 
morning from an old shipmate, informing 
me that I was wanted here. I came by the 
first train. He met me at the ferry, and 
placed in my hand a copy of one of your 
posters. I believe I did not stop to thank 
the old fellow but rushed up here as speed- 
ily as possible. Where is my mother ?” 

“ She is not far from here ; sit down 
while I tell you of her.” 

“ Beg pardon, sir, but I must see her at 
once. If the storm was a hurricane I could 
not wait ; now that I know that my mother 


42 


billy’s mother. 


lives, the moments are as long as the years 
of suspense used to be.” 

“ It must be a great surprise to you to 
learn of her presence near you, after such 
a long separation.” 

“ My poor mother, I thought her dead 
these twenty years. Where is she ?” 

“ I will take you to her,” answered the 
doctor, as he stepped into the hall and was 
again enveloped in his rubber coat by the 
wondering Sam, who eyed the stranger very 
suspiciously. Scarcely was the door se- 
cured after their egress, than Sam hastened 
below stairs and electrified the occupants of 
the kitchen by the words : “ Fo de Lawd, 
shua’s I Stan’ heah dat saler man done gone 
an’ fotch hissef from de dead.” 

“ What saler man you talkin’ ’bout ?” in- 
quired the cook. 

“ Wy, dat saler man de doctor done gone 
an’ get dem big yaller keards in de saler 
barbers foh down town ; dat’s de man.” 

“ Now see here you, Sam, ’splain yissef ; 
you am talkin’ foolishniss.” 

“ Didn’t 1 seed him mysef dis minit in de 
hall, so feerce he skeered me. He want de 
ole mudder right off, and de doctor jes min’ 
him meek’s a lam, in dis storm.” 


billy’s mother. 


43 


“ What he luk like, hey ? ” 

“ Oh ! lawdy, big, and feerce, an’ proud 
as Lusifuss. When he speak folks stan’ 
roun’ eff they never seed him ’fore.” 

“ De good Lawd bress dat bressed doc- 
tor, ef he doan’ go straight to hebben in 
charot of fiah when he die dar aint no use 
ob charots no mo’,” devoutly exclaimed 
cook, as she mopped her fat face with her 
kitchen apron, and absorbed thereby several 
genuine tears, prompted by sympathy for the 
long lost son, whose longings for parental 
love she could fully appreciate, as she had 
once been “a chattel,” without any rights 
of the “woman within” kind. 

Sam’s joy at the success of the doctor’s 
quest was manifested by a regular “ break- 
down ” at the imminent risk of china and 
crystal. Had he not a right to a share in 
the glory ? It was to his skill that the pos- 
ters owed their firm positions and correct 
perpendiculars. The passionate love char- 
acteristic of their race was centred in the 
doctor, and those warm-hearted servants 
desired the success of his plans, whether 
they understood the full import of them or 


44 


BILLY S MOTHER. 


The storm beat about Doctor Wyckllffe 
and his companion so pitilessly that but few 
words passed between them as they thread- 
ed their way over the slippery pavements, 
and halted at the gateway so familiar to 
many who have not had the misfortune to 
need “a pass” for entrance within. 

At the dread portal Mr. Cochrane halted, 
and grasping the doctor’s arm, said, hoarse- 
ly : “ In the hospital ! Oh ! doctor, is it so 
bad as that ? ” 

“ She is a convalescent now,” answered 
the doctor, as they passed through the gate- 
way unchallenged, so familiar had the 
genial doctor’s face become to the usually 
surly sentinel that he merely nodded his 
permission to enter, and muttered to his 
aid : “ I wonder if that is Billy after all.” 

“’Taint no ways likely that old woman 
has any such fine-looking old greybeard 
waiting to call her mother,” was the re- 
sponse. 

“ Not likely, but the queer things I know 
of, that have happened in this ’ere very 
place since I’m gateman, would knock all 
the dime novels out of time, to say nothing 
of the stories that’s never told, but kind of 


billy’s mother. 


45 


guessed at, and only Gabriel or some of his 
fellows has ’em on their books ; it’s a 
mighty queer world, and I’ll bet a good 
cigar, that very chap is the old woman’s 
long lost son. The doctor looked so jolly 
good natured, if the rain was pouring out 
of his whiskers and off his hat rim, he’s 
treed his game, as sure as shooting,” and 
by way of emphasis the speaker slapped a 
broad hand on the listener’s shoulders, with 
a force that elicited a disapproving grunt 
and a grumbling response as the tingling 
shoulder was caressed by one hand, while 
the other one was busily engaged in accept- 
ing the cancelled tickets of departing visi- 
tors, examining passes, and giving out ad- 
mittances to the constantly passing file of 
sorrowing friends or entering patients. 

Curious stories, strange histories, and 
eccentric characters are gossiped about in 
“off hours” by the employees of the hos- 
pital, and Mrs. Cochrane’s story (especially 
after it became known that the handsome 
young doctor, the good-natured warden, 
and the favorite nurse were interested in 
her) was the subject of many surmises. 
Each listener to the rehearsal had some 


46 


billy’s mother. 


new opinion to advance, each one viewed 
the matter according as the element of sym- 
pathy, hope, or cynicism predominated in 
his character. 

“ Old Bob,” the gate-keeper, was not half 
so surly as he tried to make people believe ; 
he fancied that his gruff ways managed the 
throng passing in and out day after day 
— better than gentler methods could ; if ac- 
cused, he would have denied most emphati- 
cally that he held any speculative and kind- 
ly thoughts upon the subject of “ Billy’s 
Mother,” but his younger assistant winked 
knowingly at the stream of rain-drops from 
the overfull eaves, when a few moments 
after the doctor had passed in. Old Bob 
concluded to “ run in a minute and see the 
warden about lettin’ the little gate close 
early on account of the rain.” 

The winking process, afforded so much 
satisfaction to the winker that it was follow- 
ed by a broad grin, and the soliloquy, “ I’ve 
heard of folks being hypocrites to make 
folks believe they was kind, but that old 
hypocrite won’t let anybody see the soft 
spot in his nature if he can hide it ; he 
couldn’t wait for supper time to know if he 


Lilly’s motheb-- 


47 


was right. Oh, no, not him ; and he’ll 
manage to get it told to him without a ques- 
tion too, he’s so sly, he is ; now I don’t care 
enough to go see, if I was off duty, but I 
hope Bob won’t be long, it’s my turn to go 
first to supper to-night, and I’m powerful 
hungry as well as considerable dry. Seems 
to me the doctor’s making a long call to- 
day, waiting for the rain to hold up, I sup- 
pose. 

Fine-looking man that, he brought in, I 
must own ; foreign doctor, likely ; looks 
more like a captain, though. I wish Bob 
would come back, I would like to hear him 
tell what he found out ; not that I care 
about “ Billy’s Mother” at all, but I like to 
hear Bob talk, and it’s awful lonesome here 
of a rainy day, a handling tickets for ragged 
people, and crying people, and half-starved 
people, and lonesome looking people, and 
cripples, and regular cadavers that walks. 
Folks that comes out of curiosity don’t 
come such days. I don’t think Bob has 
any business to stay so long ; I’d like to 
know what he’s doing ; he’s very big feeling, 
is Bob ; thinks he can talk to anybody ; I 
wouldn’t wonder if he was up in Ward g 


48 


billy’s mother. 


now, talking to the doctor and Billy, if that 
was him ; no doubt he’s having a good 
time, and here I am in this dreary old gate- 
house waiting for him.” 

The complacent grin had died out alto- 
gether ; the winking had ceased ; and the 
soliloquy ceased also as Bob forgot to re- 
turn. The doctor remained quite beyond 
“ the rule ” time, and the gates were locked, 
the lamps lighted, and the third table served 
before many who ■' did not care ” were fully 
satisfied about “Billy’s Mother” and the 
doctor’s guest. 


CHAPTER IV. 


ITH each step that brought him 
nearer to the accomplishment of a 
long cherished desire, the excite- 
ment of Mr. Cochrane was visibly increased, 
and as the gentlemen were admitted to the 
reception room by the uniformed orderly. 
Doctor Wyckliffe was not surprised to hear 
his companion say : “ Don’t keep us wait- 
ing, young man ; every moment is an hour 
to me just now.” 

“ The rules must be observed by all,” 
was the quiet rejoinder ; and the doctor 
added : 

“We must leave these dripping wraps 
and o\ ershoes here, or we will not be ad- 
mitted to the ward.” 

“ Excuse my impatience,” apologized Mr. 
Cochrane. “You are right; but I can 
scarcely control myself. A storm at sea, 
with a mutinous crew, would not so com- 
pletely upset me as this last delay in a 
thirty years’ drama.” 

When the door of the ward was reached 



50 


billy’s mother. 


Doctof Wyckliffe knocked lightly, and 
beckoned the nurse into the hall ; he be- 
gan to speak in a very low tone, but she 
interrupted him with an eager exclamation, 
“ I know, I know ; this is Billy — I beg 
your pardon — but it seems the only name 
to us, we hear it here so frequently,” and 
with a joyous expression on her face the 
warm-hearted woman clasped the hand of 
the stranger guest, and bade him welcome, 
while Doctor Wyckliffe was recovering 
from his surprise at the ready intuition of 
the woman which enabled her, to recognize 
the grey-bearded man at his side, before a 
word of explanation could be given. 

“ The first question in order now is, how 
to introduce Mr. Cochrane to his mother,” 
suggested the doctor. 

“ I can manage her,” replied the nurse, 
smiling as she spoke, “ if you can keep 
Mr. Cochrane under control ; I see he is 
very nervous now.” 

“ I will do exactly as you bid me, and 
can command myself, I assure you,” said 
Mr. Cochrane. The effort of will had 
quite blanched his cheeks, and his lips were 
compressed quite forcibly, while the words 


billy’s mother. 


51 

were deliberate and the -tones unnatural 
under the pressure of his great emotion. 

“ Then follow me in five minutes if I do 
not return,” said the nurse, as she glided 
into the ward. The five minutes during 
which Mr. Cochrane held his watch in his 
hand, not daring to trust his judgment as 
to the duration of the waiting, seemed 
longer than many a lonely watch at sea had 
seemed, when there were only his own 
thoughts, grim night shadows, and the 
whish of fathomless waters for company. 

Billy’s mother was lying on her cot with 
wide open eyes, and a happy expression on 
her face, as the nurse approached her and 
said : “ How nice it would be for Doctor 
Wyckliffe to walk in now, with Billy at his 
side ; it would drive the gloom of the storm 
all away.” 

“ I was just now thinkin’ so myself ; I 
feel it in my bones that my Billy is nigh to 
hand,” was the earnest reply. 

“ Then surely he must be coming to-day ; 
how glad we shall all be.” 

“ But the doctor said this mornin’ he 
hedn’t hed no news yet.” 

“ I know ; but queerer things occur in 


52 


billy’s mother. 


this hospital than anywhere else on earth, 

I believe — ” 

“ See here ! be you a keepin’ of some- 
thin’ from me ? ” Mrs. Cochrane raised her 
head from the pillow, and leaning on her - 
elbow shook her finger at the nurse while 
she was speaking. 

Without appearing to observe the ges- 
ture and question, the nurse continued : 

“ If your son should come, you must try to 
be as calm as you can, for we want you to 
live ever so long with Billy.” 

“ Oh ! there is the doctor again, and a 
sailor man with him ; they must have 
news,” interrupted the eager convalescent. 

“Yes, Mrs. Cochrane, good news,” said 
the doctor, rubbing his hands gleefully to- 
gether, as he advanced toward her. Mr. 
Cochrane closely following, kneeled rever- 
ently by the cot, and said in a broken 
voice : 

“ Mother, my darling mother, do you not 
know me ?” 

In speechless amazement she gazed at 
the face before her for several minutes, and 
then said slowly : “ It is my Billy ; he has 
his father’s eyes.” 


billy’s mother. 


53 


There was a subdued and mournful 
element in the words, very touching to the 
listeners, as the faithful heart turned back 
to the days of wifehood and brought up 
from the dead past the vision of her loved 
husband. Her thin arms were around the 
neck of her son in another instant, and her 
cheeks were wetted with the strong man’s 
tears as he kissed her again and again, un- 
mindful of the sobbing all through the 
ward. There were many infringements of 
the rules that day. Every woman there 
wanted to share in the joy and the welcome, 
and the nurse needed all her tact to restore 
order, but no serious results followed. Joy 
seldom kills. Sympathy with the glad ones 
of earth is not exhaustive. One motherly 
soul expressed the truth in this hearty 
fashion to the house surgeon ; “ Shure 
there’s niver any harrum in a bit av good 
natur, an’ a tear drop hurted not wan av us 
the day whin that fine bye kem intil his 
mkher. Indade an’ there’s a many av us 
will nade to be a gettin’ intil heaven to 
mate our byes. There’s niver wan in this 
warrud the worse for the bit o’ cryin’, did 
ye think it, docthur dear.” 


54 


billy's mother. 


Turning his face toward the window, and 
pressing a palm on either cheek, Mrs. Coch- 
rane studied every line intently, forgetful, 
meanwhile, to wipe away the tears from her 
own eyes, seemingly oblivious of those that 
were falling like summer rain from the eyes' 
of her son. She said at last : “ My Billy 
had yellow hair and fair skin.” 

“Yes, mother.” 

“He was trim as a whip.” 

“Yes, mother.” 

“ And he had no beard.” 

“ Well, mother, you know I was a boy, 
when I left you. I grew broad-shouldered 
with hard work, brown with sun and storm, 
my hair grew dark, and now it is almost as 
grey as yours. I was only a boy, mother, 
when I went away ; now I have boys almost 
as large as I was then, who are waiting anx- 
iously to see their grandmother.” 

“ Grandma ; to my boy Billy’s boys ! 
Oh!” 

“Yes, mother.” 

“It seems all a dream. I’m afraid to be- 
lieve my own eyes.” 

“ It is not a dream, mother, and right 
glad am I that it is not.” 


billy’s mother. 


55 


Mr. Cochrane rose, and turning an arm- 
chair to the side of the cot, lifted his mother 
tenderly, wrapping the blanket about her, 
and sat down with her folded in his arms. 
The nurse said : “ I will trust you with 
your mother for a little while longer. Doctor 
Wyckliffe slipped out quietly, and has gone 
home. He left word for you to call on him 
as soon as you can. I have other duties to 
attend to, and then I must turn you out 
into the storm again. My patient must not 
be wearied, now that she is on the road to 
good health, and has so much to live for.” 

“ Billy could never tire me. I’m too glad 
of him bein’ here,” answered the proud 
mother, nestling closer to the broad breast 
of her son. 

“ The nurse is right, mother ; you are 
not very strong yet, and we will have years 
to visit in, I hope.” 

“ I hope so, Billy.” 

“ I have dreamed often of finding you, 
mother ; but it was the mother I left, young 
and fair, with glossy hair and plump cheeks, 
and still living in the little home, where we 
might have been so happy. You have 
grown old, faster than your years would 


56 


billy’s mother. 


warrant, on account of my neglect, and the 
want and sickness that came to you.” . 

“ Maybe ’twas best for both on us, Billy. 
My troubles made me to think on things I 
never thought on afore.” 

“ And the discipline I was under made a 
man of me. A bad captain would have 
made me worse than I was, but all that 
don’t make my disobedience and disrespect 
to my widowed mother and my dead father 
any the less wrong.” 

“ We won’t think of that no more, Billy ; 
we’ll just be glad we’re together, won’t we ?” 

“Yes, mother, we will be glad and thank- 
ful. I am anxious to have you see my 
family, mother, but it is too stormy for you 
to leave here to-day. I wish I could take 
you with me, but you will only be here one 
more night, I hope. Now I must go and 
see to other matters and thank Doctor 
Wyckliffe for his kindness to you. Here 
comes the nurse to hurry me off, and we are 
ready to obey and say good-bye for to-day, 
eh, mother ? ” 

“Yes, Billy, so long as I’m to see you 
to-morrow.” 

“ Good-bye, mother.” 


billy’s mother. 


57 


“ God love ye, my brave, good lad. I 
shall sleep sound to-night ; but I can’t say 
good-bye to ye.” 

The room seemed very empty to her 
after the tall, strong man had gone out of 
it. The nurse thoughtfully brought screens 
and shut out the view of the other cots, 
leaving Mrs. Cochrane to her own happy 
thoughts, but the night was far advanced 
when she fell into a quiet sleep, to dream 
glad dreams of her boy. 

Doctor Wyckliffe made an early call at 
the hospital the following morning, and, 
smiling as he held out his hand to Mrs. 
Cochrane, said : “ That must have been a 
rare medicine which the nurse gave you 
yesterday. You are growing young again.” 

“ It was your medicine, doctor. Only for 
you I wouldn’t never have seen my boy 
again. We can’t never pay you, never at 
all.” 

“It will be ample reward to know that 
you are happy. I hope to see you occa- 
sionally, as your son tells me that his home 
is but a few miles out of the city.” 

“ I had so much else to say that I didn’t 
think to ask where he lived. It would be 


58 


billy’s mother. 


home anywheres with my Billy ; but ef it’s 
in the country I’m more glad fer that, ef so 
be as I can be more glad at all than I am 
a’ ready.” 

“ Your cot will probably have another oq- 
cupant to-night, and you will rest in your 
new home. I am very pleased on my own 
account that your son has come. The col- 
lege term closed several days ago, and my 
own mother is awaiting my return home 
with some impatience.” 

“ Don’t keep her waiting. It’s a cruel, 
cruel pain for a mother as is waiting for her 
boy.” 

“ I wrote to her a few days ago of my 
efforts to find your son and she gave me her 
hearty approval. She was quite willing I 
should wait a little longer for news, because 
she pitied you so much. I promised her to 
place the matter in other hands this week, 
but last night I telegraphed to her that 
Billy was here and I had handed over my 
charge to him. This morning an answer 
came congratulating you in your new found 
joys, and urging me to hasten home. When 
you are on the way to your new home I 
shall be hurrying toward mine, and have 
come to say good-bye for the present.” 


billy’s mother. 


59 


With tears brimming her eyes, his grate- 
ful proteg^ clasped his hand, saying : “Good- 
bye. May the good Lord bless ye an’ yer 
mother. Oh ! but she’s a blessed woman ; 
an’ ef she sets the store by ye, that ye de- 
serve there’s a deal of heartsome love in 
her house.” 

Doctor Wyckliffe could but remember 
how full of sunshine his life had been, al- 
though he had no recollection of his father. 
H is mother had used every motherly de- 
vice to make his life a happy one, and to 
mould his character into a useful and noble 
one. 

Standing, reluctant to say the final adieu, 
he could but contrast his life with that 
of the man whose mother held his hand ; 
and yet he could not form a just con- 
ception of real sorrow and wearing grief. 
No one can measure grief except by actual 
experience; one never forgets the bitterness 
of gall having once tasted it ; but not hav- 
ing done so, laughs at the wry faces of those 
who would fain forget. 

Doctor Wyckliffe’s sympathies were so 
great, so ready of access, and so real, that 
they were welcomed wherever they were 


6o 


billy’s mother. 


offered, and he was deluded into the belief 
that he knew what suffering was, when in 
reality he had only seen the outer edges of 
some of the ruins wrought by grief and 
want. 

As Doctor Wyckliffe turned to leave his 
protegd she lifted his hand to leave a kiss 
there, but he offered his cheek instead, and 
left a kiss on her forehead in exchange. 

Then placing his hand lightly on the arm 
of the young nurse, who had been a silent 
witness of the adieux, the doctor led her 
from the ward beyond the hearing of the 
other patients, an act which elicited several 
subdued remarks of a witty character, as 
well as a quick interchange of expressive 
glances betwen the helpless women in cots 
or easy-chairs. 

It was a lonely, lonely day for the nurse ; 
the doctor was gone ; in a few hours Mrs. 
Cochrane would also be gone, and new 
faces would come in their stead. 

No querulous patient, however, would 
have known that every heart-beat was a 
pang to the patient, cheery, busy nurse, who 
was “ a leddy born ” in the language of ad- 
miring patients, and, in consequence of her 


billy’s mother. 6 1 

gentle birth, all the better fitted for the 
work of ministration through dark hours. 

It required some effort, however, to greet 
pleasantly one of the visitors who came 
once a week to read to the patients, until 
the words caught the keenly attentive ear : 
“ Where’s my home,” and the lonely heart 
answered the question silently, “ I have no 
home, nor shall I have, in all probability, 
until I have earned a title to one of the 
mansions in our Father’s house ” ; but the 
words had a magic power in them, and in- 
voluntarily she waited near the reader’s 
chair to listen, making, all unconsciously, 
a rarely beautiful picture, as she rested one 
graceful hand upon the high back of an in- 
valid chair, and leaned easily against a 
screen of dark-blue, which made an admir- 
able back-ground for her clear cut profile 
and slender figure, clad in simple hospital 
garb. 

The reader’s soothing tones glided on 
through the melodious measures, while 
otherwise perfect silence reigned to the 
end of the poem, when the nurse turned 
away to her many duties, with the words 
dancing like fairies through her mind, in 


62 


BILLY S MOTHER. 


monotonesvivid, and pleasing, though the 
harmonies were in a minor key. Perhaps 
others in reading it may find a momentary 
solace, or food for a restful reverie : 

WHERE IS MY HOME? 

By the shim’ring western sea 
Stands a cottage low and wide ; 

Near, the wavelets in their glee. 

Weave lace edges to the tide. 

'Tis a dizzy way to look, 

Down the lichened rocky ledge, 

From the cottage in its nook 

To the white-beached water’s edge. 

Afar, the sails against the sun. 

Gleam and glisten pearly white. 

As the day-hours swiftly run 
Giving place to starry night. 

All about there flow’ring creeps 
Wealth of graceful trailing vines, 

Od’rous breath about me sweeps — 

Breath of hardy mountain pines. 

From my window, trailing vines 
Sway, and tremble as in bliss. 

To the sweet wild rose that twines — 

All the trellis, flinging kiss. 

Crowned with glitt’ring dustless snow 
Mocking summer’s brightest sun. 


billy’s mother. 


63 


Seamed with crystal streams that flow 
Down their sides so grey and dun. 

A mountain back-ground towers high, 

Oft beneath the granite bands, — 

Nature's ponderous seals — there lie, 

Gold and gems for daring ha;nds. 

Of the changeful wondrous scenes. 

Climbing up the beetling stair. 

Or the joy 'neath leafy screens. 

Of feathered singers hid’n there. 

Pen or brush can ne’er portray, 

Or most gifted tongue declare, 

All the glory of one day, 

Passed in peace, and quiet there. 

True, I know the mountains hold. 

Deep within their darksome glens. 

That defy the trapper bold, 

Fierce wild beasts, in noisome dens ; 

Oft they break my restful sleep, 

When hunger-driv’n from their lair ; 

Or their footsteps near me creep — 

I perchance all unaware ; 

When morn the prowler’s track reveals 
My timid heart is chilled with fear. 

The moonless sky, sometimes conceals 
An outlawed ruffian lurking near ; 

Or ’mid the rocks — in strange disguise — 

A wand’rer meets the grim Prince, Death, 
Unwatched by loving, tearful eyes. 

The crim.son gush, and failing breath — 


64 


billy's mother. 


When loit’ring footsteps careless wend 
About the craggy snow-capped steep, 

A wond’ring face may sadly bend, 

Where Death had bid the ^‘missing sleep/* 

And would you see the awesome pow’r. 

Of the storm from out the West ; 

When massive clouds so darkly low’r, 

Near the wrathful ocean’s breast ; 

As ’gainst the lofty trees it beats, 

And strives to wrench the rocks away* 

Its giant strength their hold defeats, 

And fills the soul with new dismay ; 

Then clambers to the mountain’s crest 
And leaves thereon new wreaths of snow. 

Or calms midway — as though to rest, 

It’s vehemence its overthrow. 

From trellised porch at dewy eve, 

I gaze upon a fairy scene. 

The storm has passed, and I receive 
Through artist’s eye, the peace serene. 

An Indian hunter, tall and straight, 

Is limned against the Southern sky ; 

He looks toward the sunset gate. 

And moans : Oh ! day, why dost thou die ? 

Wilt bear my words far o’er the waves — 
Beyond the singing murm’ring sea ? ” 

Sad are his thoughts of long dead braves 
Once tall, and lithe and strong as he. 

Behold ; the couriers of the sun. 

Bear this message as they flee; 


billy’s mother. 


65 


“ Our hunting grounds are all o’errun 
With harvest grains, a golden sea ; 

And softly sways the tasseled corn, 

Where once our warriors won their fame ; 
And farm-wife notes on dinner horn 
Fright far the timid winter game ; 

Where once we rocked our swift canoes, 

Sail white-winged monsters in their pride. 
Our forest homes are fallen too 

Before the pale-faced conquerer’s stride; 
The graves wherein were lain our dead, 

Are lost forever to our view 
'Neath the usurper’s heartless tread. 

His but this law — The weak subdue." 

My eyes grow dim with unshed tears 
While on the moveless form I gaze — 
That in this twilight hour appears, 

A phantom of historic days. 

' This, my home, I sometimes say, 

But the words are not quite true. 

For my home has passed away — 

Ashes only I may view. 

When, with saddened steps, and slow, 
Tow'rd the morn-gilt eastern strand, 
Halting often — I may go. 

'Til once more, I dreaming stand 
Near the hearthstone, broken — crushed, 
And the roof-tree fallen low. 

Echo sweet of love-song hushed. 

Then I hear, or fancy so. 


66 


billy’s mother. 


Graves are scattered, far and wide, 
Where my pilgrim footsteps tend. 
Graves of those in whom my pride, 
Joy and hope were wont to blend. 
Ah ! the way doth seem so long, 

’Til the eastern murm’ring sea 
’Neath the cliffs in weird, sad song — 
Seems to offer sympathy. 

There is no home when love is dead ; 

Haunting pictures then have we, 
*Til at last life’s fairy thread 
Softly breaks and sets us free. 
Thus, sweet home ” at last we know 
Home eternal, grand, and fair — 
Death nor Time can overthrow. 

Or, as victors, enter there. 


CHAPTER V. 


*HE visitor” had but just disappear- 
ed down the broad stairs when her 
place in the ward was occupied by 
a very brisk little woman, whose clear voice 
answered to the pleasant interrogatory of 
“ Who do you wish to see, madam ?” with 
the words : “ I am to see Mrs. Cochrane, 
and take her measure.” 

“ This is Mrs. Cochrane,” replied the 
nurse, leading the way and offering the 
chair just vacated by the reader. “ Ex- 
cuse me, my duties accumulate this morn- 
ing, while Mrs. Cochrane’s interests are 
looked after,” she continued, as she hasten- 
ed away to attend to other patients, 
while the brisk little woman proceeded to 
business. Her cloak and hat, gloves and 
bag were laid on the cot as unceremonious- 
ly as though there had never been a rule of 
order issued in Ward 9. From the bag she 
brought a pencil, tape measure and memo- 
randum book. “Now we are ready,” she 
said. “ Stand up, please. There, just so,” 



68 


BILLY S MOTHER. 


and the tape measure was swiftly applied 
to shoulders, arms, bust and skirt, the result 
carefully noted down, with no unnecessary 
words, merely the request, “Turn around 
so, please.” “ Now you may sit down.” 
“There, that is all, I believe.” The pen- 
cil, tape and book disappeared ; gloves and 
cloak and hat resumed their places as if by 
magic. 

Then the little woman flew out of the 
ward without a compliment of adieu to any 
one, leaving behind her a world of guesses 
and speculations among the inmates. A 
little time after their dinner hour she re-ap- 
peared, carrying some — and followed by 
more — bundles. 

“ Here I am again,” she said, as briskly 
and yet as gently as might be expected 
from one with such a quick, elastic step, 
and self-reliant manner. “ Now, if you 
please, we will have some screens, and I 
will show you a very elegant woman in 
about thirty minutes’ time.” 

The screens were rolled into place — enclos- 
ing the cot and room to turn around about 
twice — the arm-chair was discarded to make 
more room, and Mrs. Cochrane, sitting, on 


billy’s mother. 69 

the edge of the cot, submitted herself to 
the deft hands of the brisk little woman, 
who was supplied with needles, thread and 
pins, scissors, thimble, and tape. The hos- 
pital clothes were stripped off ; the daintiest 
of lamb’s wool garments and softest of linen 
took their place ; from head to foot, only 
the finest texture was used. As the fine 
shoes were being laced up, a voice close to 
the screen inquired timidly : 

“ May I conie in ? ” 

“ Is it Jennie ?” 

“Yes, Mrs. Cochrane; and I want to 
help.” 

“ Come in, my dear ; we’ll make room,” 
and a screen was pushed to one side that a 
young girl, who had won the love of Mrs. 
Cochrane, and given in return that of a 
daughter, might enter. 

“ Mayn’t I fix your hair ; that’s my busi- 
ness, you know. I would so like to do it 
once real handsome, for I’ll never see you 
again,” and the tears fell fast. 

“ Don’t cry, Jennie, child, may be ye kin 
come to see me sometime ; ye can fix my 
hair, certain.” 

“A good idea,” assented the brisk little 


70 


BILLY S MOTHER. 


woman, throwing the discarded bedgown 
about Mrs. Cochrane’s shoulders, and going 
on again with her work as though there 
had been no interruption. 

Jennie’s combs and brushes, and skillful . 
fingers, soon transformed the severely plain 
coil of almost white hair into a becoming 
row of puffs about Mrs. Cochrane’s face, and 
a coronet braid, which was supported by a 
pretty comb, and farther beautified by a rich 
barbe of lace ; fortunately, found among 
the goods displayed on the cot. Even the 
busy, energetic woman expressed her ap- 
probation by saying : 

“Thank you. Miss Jennie; that is very 
well done, better than I could have accom- 
plished, and it saves me some time.” 

Jennie lingered over the willing recipient 
of her caressing care until the brisk little 
woman said, “ Now the lace cape and pin, 
and we are ready for our debut. All these 
poor invalids must have a peep at her. 
Out of the way now. Miss Jennie, fold 
away the screens. Now, good folks, take a 
look at her. How do you think she looks? 
Do you believe in fairy god-mothers ? I 
am one, you see, and of the only genuine 


billy’s mother. 


71 


kind. Any one can act that role with such 
a pocketbook as I had this morning, if they 


are in New York. Oh ! 
yes, Mrs. Cochrane, 
I’m your fairy god- 
mother, and no mis- 
take. Now, Miss Jen- 
nie, on with the hat 
and veil, those fur-lined 
gloves and overshoes, 
while I see if the cloak 
is a fit.” 



“Your taste is per- 
fect, madam,” said the 
nurse, admiringly. 


** JV'oza, good folks y take a 
look at her” 


“ She is lovely as a picture,” said Jennie, 
between her sobs. “ I’m so glad for you, 
Mrs. Cochrane, but I’ll be so lonely. I 
thought maybe he would never come, and 
then we could live together, like mother 
and daughter,” and Jennie ran away to her 
own cot, and resolutely hid her face in the 
pillow, fearful of creating a scene if she at- 
tempted to say good-bye. 

“Your son is waiting for you,” said the 
brisk little woman. “ I was to dress you as 
quickly as possible, for he is very impatient. 



72 


billy’s mother. 


In a few minutes more you will be on your 
way to your new home.” 

Mrs. Cochrane seemed almost dazed as 
she looked down at her clothes, and said 
softly : “ Everythin’ fine as a princess for 
his ol’ mother, when it was gladness enough 
fer me to have him, an’ now I’m to have 
Billy’s boys, too.” 

“ Say your good-byes now ; my work is 
done, and I must call your son to take you 
down.” 

“ I feel so smart I can go down alone.” 

“ No, no ; you must wait for your son to 
take you down,” and the messenger was 
gone, to return with Mr. Cochrane in a very 
few moments. 

“ Leave all this rubbish here for poor 
folks,” said the brisk little woman, hastily 
surveying the mixed pile of clothes on the 
cot, “ the nurse will know who needs them.” 

“ I wish I could have more such bundles 
to distribute,” answered the nurse, and turn- 
ing to Mr. Cochrane, she said : “ Every pa- 
tient in the ward seems better since you 
came. Your mother was a favorite, and 
they are all rejoiced to see her happy.” 

Some mysterious whisperings passed be- 


billy’s mother. 


73 


tween the nurse and Mr. Cochrane, and she 
was heard to say, “ Just as the warden says 
about that.” At last, after many delays, 
Mr. Cochrane lifted his mother and bore 
her away to the warden’s office for more 
adieux. 

No one would have recognized the pretty 
old lady in her neat suit of cashmere, her 
fur-lined cloak of rich lustreless black silk, 
her velvet hat, kid gloves and fine shoes, as 
the feeble, moaning woman brought in on a 
stretcher two months before; whose only 
dress was a faded calico, whose only wrap 
was a worn out shawl, whose grey hair had 
been for years neglectfully twisted into a 
little knot and held up by a few rusty, badly 
bent hairpins, frequently replenished in 
number from the sweepings on the side- 
walk. 

As the travelers left the wide hall to 
enter the carriage, every man and boy, from 
scullery, kitchen, storehouse, stable and 
morgue came into the court or peeped 
through the windows to see them off, and 
to catch a glimpse of " the rich old sailor ” 
and his loving mother. 

Even old Bob forgot his assumed char- 


74 


billy’s mother. 


acter so far as to bow and smile, and say 
“ Long life to ye, an’ God bless ye both.” 

As the carriage turned into the street 
Mrs. Cochrane inquired, “ Where be, we 
goin’ now, Billy ? ” 

“ Home, mother — home, as fast as steam 
can carry us.” 

“ Billy ! ’pears to me ye likes to say 
mother.” 

“ Bless you, yes ; I do, mother. I’ve 
said it hundreds of times at sea, just to 
hear the sound of the word ; but I had 
given up all thoughts of ever saying it to 
you again in this world.” 

“ I never give up, Billy. It ’peared like 
I must come across ye some day, and the 
lonesomer I wur the surer I felt to see ye, 
Billy.” 

For answer he kissed her again and 
again, and drew her closer to his side, where 
he held her fast until the ferry was reached. 

As they left the boat Mrs. Cochrane 
whispered, “ I’m so glad its not in the city, 
Billy. Has yer home a tree to it, Billy?” 

“ Yes, mother — trees and gardens, and 
room enough to breathe, and none of this 
racket to plague you.” 


billy’s mother. 


75 


“ Oh ! ” she said, with a happy sigh, as he 
lifted her again in his strong arms and bore 
her carefully and easily through the throng 
of carts and hurrying passengers to the 
cars. It was her first ride with an iron 
steed, and she was like a child with her 
queries. Farther and farther away from 
the city they passed, their happiness almost 
enviously noted by their fellow passengers, 
but those who most envied them, least 
guessed the sorrow of the past. 

Just as night was falling Mr. Cochrane 
assisted his mother from the cars and into 
another carriage. A short ride through a 
tree-bordered lane, suggestive of summer 
pleasure, and Billy’s mother was welcomed 
home to a beautiful country house. Three 
eager boys, and their rosy-cheeked mother, 
with baby Clare in her a.rms, came out on the 
porch to meet the travelers. Mr. Coch- 
rane lifted his mother from the carriage, 
bore her in his arms across the sward, and 
putting her down tenderly, said, “ This is 
my mother, Elizabeth.” 

That good little wife adopted her on the 
spot as her mother also, giving her at once 
the old-fashioned name which is, after all, 


76 


billy’s mother. 


the sweetest and most appropriate for that 
woman who has attained to the high honor 
of motherhood. 



Their rosy •cheeked mother T Baby Clare,** 


sitting room, and the boys trooped after 
their elders, eager to accept their father’s 
suggestions of “ Now, boys, welcome grand- 
ma.” And they did with a will. The en- 
thusiasm especially belonging to “Young 
America ” was manifestly permitted plenty 
of room in that home. 

The boys could hardly spare her long 
enough to go and lay off her wraps in her 
own room, with mamma as her aid, and as 
for grandma herself, she lingered at the 
door to take one more look, and say again : 


billy’s mother. 


77 


“ This one is Billy, and this one Danny.” 
“ And I’m Albert,” interrupted the youngest 
son, “ and baby’s name is Clare,” were the 
words that followed grandma along the hall, 
whither three pairs of boots soon followed 
suit. Although Billy, Jr., was just at that 



age when boys begin to question about 
manly and babyish acts; but as grandma was 
beautiful, and had the tenderest of smiles, the 
manliness of an eagerness to keep close to 
her was not to be doubted ; they each peeped 
into her room longingly, but not being in- 
vited to enter, passed on to the dining- 
room, comparing notes boy fashion, in 


78 billy’s mother. 

whispers more audible than clear verbals 
would have been. “ Ain’t she the daisiest 
grandma ever was ? ” from Albert, “ I 
shall love her just about to death, she’s so 
little, and sweet, 
and nice,” from 
Danny. “Papa will 
put her in a cage 
if that’s the new 
danger. After all, 
she’s come, though” 
said Billy, Jr., re- 
provingly. “ I did- 
n’t exactly mean 
that I’d eat her 
like meat, Billy, Jr., 
and you know it,” 
rejoined Danny. 

“ Isn’t she dress- 
ed nice, though? I 
like to see such pretty clothes,” was Albert’s 
final comment, as their father followed 
them into the cheery room, and realized 
more than ever that it was a wise fore- 
thought which led him to dress his mother 
becomingly before bringing her home. 
The boys need never know how thin and 



billy’s mother. 


79 


faded her old dress had been, and he turned 
toward the door to catch the first possible 
glimpse of the beloved face. 


CHAPTER VI. 


RANDMA’S room,” which had been 
IPI dedicated to her service from the 
first planning of the house, was on 
the ground floor, with a bay window on the 
west, two large windows on the south, an 
open fire-place on the north side, with a 
large mirror above the mantle. “ She can 
see out of doors and into the fire all at 
once,” exclaimed Danny, when the boys 
were taking notes of the room, and made 
the discovery that the mirror and the two 
front windows, aided and abetted by the 
bay windows, presented a fair measure of 
the landscape to the one who might be 
cozily “toasting toes” at the bright fender, 
while the entire body found rest in the old- 
fashioned sleepy-hollow chair, crimson cov- 
ered, and arrayed in dainty tidies. 

Many guests had been permitted the 
honor of occupancy, in lieu of the grand- 
ma who was so tardy in her coming ; but 
the fire blazing away so brightly had dif- 
fused such a bewitching glow through the 


billy’s mother. 8 1 

room as the evening shadows came silently 
and gracefully in, and took possession of 
the coziest corners, that Mrs. Cochrane, the 
younger, thought she had never fully ap- 
preciated the room until that moment. 

As for her mother, she stood with up- 
lifted hands, wondering how many fairy 
god-mothers she had found all at once, 
and why they had been so shy of her path- 
way for nearly forty years. 

“ This is your own room, mother,” said 
Mrs. Cochrane, as she untied the bonnet 
and lifted the soft cloak away from her 
mother’s feeble shoulders. “No doubt we 
shall be intruding very often, but it is your 
castle, and when you wish to be alone you 
can shut us out.” 

“Oh! ’Liz’beth, I couldn’t never shut 
any on ye out, but it ’pears like some one 
was a jokin’ of me, an’ I’d turn roun’ an’ be 
back in Sanger Street as poor, an’ lonesome, 
an’ hungry as ever.” 

That last reminded the good wife of the 
supper already waiting in the dining-room ; 
and she said, “ You must be hungry now ; 
we will go to the dining-room at once. 
Billy and the boys are waiting for us.” 


82 


billy’s mother. 


Taking her arm affectionately she led her 
to the cheerful room, where the younger 
boys were skylarking about and under the 
table. Order was quickly restored, and 
every boy in his seat by the time grandma 
fully comprehended where she was to sit. 

The table presented a feast fit for kings 
and princes she thought, and she was glad 
to note the reverent rendering of thanks 
unto “ the Giver of all good.” The wedding 
feast in her father’s house, when she ac- 
cepted the risks and responsibilities of wife- 
hood, was not so sweet to her as that first 
supper under her son’s roof, with the 
piquante flavoring of her grandsons’ sup- 
pressed merriment and healthful appetites. 

When brought back to the sitting-room 
with her full guard of honor. Grandma 
Cochrane said : “ Billy, this seems so nigh 
to hev’n ef it could last, ’pears like I 
wouldn’t never want to go there.” 

“It will last, mother, until some of us do 
go there, and when that time comes we will 
just believe it won’t take long until we all 
get together again.” 

With wondering eyes, grandma — newly 
titled, although still to be known under the 


billy’s mother. 


83 


new and favorable auspices as '' Billy’s 
mother” — looked from one face to the 
other ; she listened while all three of the 
boys talked to her at once ; she smiled on 
Elizabeth with a tenderness born of long 
years of endurance, and at last she held 
inviting arms toward baby Clare, and re- 
ceiving her, clasped her so tightly to her 
breast that the good-natured little creature 
was almost frightened, but concluded that 
no harm Vv^as intended, and soon fell asleep 
on the long hungry heart, so unexpectedly 
sated, while her brothers wondered what 
magic grandma could possibly have used, 
for Clare usually raised positive objections 
to going to sleep until the boys had retired, 
and Billy, Jr., frequently averred: The 
silly little creature is afraid us boys will 
have some fun she won’t have a chance 
to laugh at.” 

Now boys,” said their father, as the 
clock struck eight, ''off to bed with you. 
Grandma has come to stay ; you can see her 
again to-morrow. I want her to have the 
best of care, so she must be allowed to go 
to bed early, and there must be no racket 
around the house to-morrow morning until 
you are sure grandma is awake.” 


84 


billy’s mother. 


In five minutes they were all gone from 
the room, and their grandma was immeasur- 
ably astonished at the demonstration that 
boys could be taught prompt obedience. 

Silently, for a little time she rocked to 
and fro, the mysterious rain that may indi- 
cate excess of joy, or the assuaging of sor- 
row’s pangs stealing down her cheeks, at 
the thought of those three hearty good- 
night kisses. What a long line of weary 
years lay dark and grim between the good- 
night kisses ending so abruptly for her, and 
that joyous hour when the precious boon 
was again accorded, with a grace that would 
have made it difficult for a stranger to be- 
lieve there had ever been an interruption 
in the delicate thread which will bind up so 
deftly the weakened places in love’s mys- 
tical cord, the magic of which is so neces- 
sary to the perfect harmony of home. 

Clare was gently lifted by her mother 
and borne away sleeping sweetly, her 
father remarking proudly : “ She is the best 
baby I ever saw ; I knew you would love 
her, mother.” 

“ W’y, Billy, it ’pears as ef my heart 
would burst, with so much love a cornin’ 
into it all at once,” said his mother, in reply. 


billy’s mother. 


85 


When grandma returned to her room to 
retire for the night, she saw that some good 
fairy had been there and lighted a lamp on 
the centre table ; the bed covering was laid 
back, and on the foot of the bed was lying 
a fine night-gown with lace edgings, a flan- 
nel wrapper of bluish-grey with darker 
bands of velvet, a pair of quilted slippers 
stood with their toes to the fender, the 
scarlet linings fairly blinking with the rosy 
light they caused. The wardrobe door 
stood ajar, disclosing a well-stocked inte- 
rior ; on the dressing-case was laid out a set 
of combs and brushes, while the drawers 
were filled with other things which delight 
the eyes of a tidy, tasteful woman. 

Fronting the bay window was a low 
couch, upholstered in dark small-figured 
goods ; a work-table stood by the side of it, 
and seemed quite a part of the furnishing ; 
an old settler, in fact, although no one had 
ever been permitted to use the contents of 
the rose wood work-box, which Billy had 
purchased for his mother years and years 
before. 

Alone once more, Mrs. Cochrane sat gaz- 
ing into the fire, and thinking over the 


86 


BILLY S MOTHER. 


events of the forty-eight hours last past ; it 
was a puzzle to her how so much could be 
accomplished in so short a time. The 
ready-made clothes to which her eyes were 
accustomed were of the flimsiest quality 
and poorest make ; she was not aware of 
the fact that complete wardrobes, fit for 
royal dames, could be purchased in many of 
the stores in New York, provided one had 
the wherewithal to pay the prices asked. 

The brisk little woman who had taken 
the measures necessary for Mrs. Cochrane’s 
outfit, was a professional “ purchasing 
agent,” and knew just where to go for any 
needed article. Having excellent taste as 
well, she had comprehended Mr. Cochrane’s 
order : “ Dress my mother as becomes her 
age, and my position as a wealthy man in 
a country home, with a growing family and 
educated friends.” 

Quite beyond her usual methods she had 
gone, but she said, “ Who could stop short 
of the complete business in such a case ; I 
sewed on tapes, and buttons, and fussed 
over that little old woman as though I was 
a professional dressmaker ; and that’s not 
all of the story, I was amply paid for my 


billy's xMOTHER. 


87 


trouble and haste, if I had had no commis- 
sions. I can actually take a trip to the 
mountains next summer with the earnings 
in that case. If I played the fairy god- 
mother, I also entertained one myself." 
She did not tack on to her story the moral 
which really belongs there, that those who 
faithfully try to make others happy will as- 
suredly find a fairy hovering near to their 
own pathway. They may not always recog- 
nize the fact at first, but the truth will be 
revealed to them sooner or later ; the cir- 
cumstances out of which can come to them 
their best good, may seem cruelly adverse ; 
until veiwed with the glass of experience 
and a calm after judgment." 

Mrs. Cochrane was cozily resting in the 
sleepy-hollow chair, the scarlet-lined slippers 
were still playing such a bewitching game 
of shimmer, with the fire-light as a partner, 
that she did not like to spoil it by putting 
them on ; but the grey flannel gown was 
doing duty for the first time as she solilo- 
quized after this fashion : 

'' I never thought of Billy havin' a home 
of his own, an’ here he is with his nice 
wife a callin’ of me mother as ef she’d done 


88 


billy’s mother. 


it all her days, an’ that baby loved me in 
one minute. What a picture she is, an’ the 
boys, a grandmain’ of me so lovin’, an all on 
’em kissin’ of me good-night. I most hev 
to pinch myself to see ef it’s me ; menny’s 
the time I’ve run fer my life from boys no 
bigger’n Billy’s boys is, no, nor so big ; an’ 
I wuz ’fraid of all boys, but now here’s 
Billy’s boys is reg’ler gentlemen, an’ min’ in 
a minit.” 

Unlacing her shoes, she smoothed the 
fine warm stockings with her slender fin- 
gers, saying : “ Menny’s the time, too, that 
I didn’t hev no stockin’s at all, ony make 
believe legs, an’ who’d ever hev believed 
I’d be a sittin’ here with sich fine things on 
my feet. Poor old feet, you’ve took me 
faithful in storms an’ snow, but ef I’ve any 
call to jedge my boy Billy, ye won’t never 
be cold agin til yer cold fer yer grave.” 

The soft lace at her wrists fell over her 
hands, and she felt of it wonderingly. “ I’ve 
seen them as could wear sich as this uv a 
Sunday cornin’ out’en the churches, but I 
didn’t never covet it as I knows on. I on’y 
wanted my Billy. Mebbe as I’ve wished I’d 
some uv of ther’ money, to help to find him. 


billy’s mother. 89 

It reely don’t ’pear like you’d ever worked 
so hard, do it now, to look at yer to-night,” 
addressing her thin hands. 

Standing up to disrobe, she glanced into 
the mirror, and exclaimed, '' I’ve gone back 
full twenty year in my face this very day. 
The Lord be praised for his goodness, a 
lettin’ of me live so long, an’ sometimes I 
wasn’t willin’ too, neither.” 

A soft tap at the door, and Mrs. Cochrane 
glided in, with the words cheerily falling 
from her lips, '' I came in to tuck you up, 
mother, and see if you needed anything 
more.” 

'' Anythin’ more! Why ’Liz’beth, I couldn’t 
think of anythin’ more ef I tried, it’s all so 
nice an’ handsome. I can’t make it out, 
not yet ; I s’pose I will.” 

'' Of course you will, you dear soul ; but 
it must seem very strange to you, this first 
day.” 

When at last this tucking-in process was 
completed to the satisfaction of Mrs. Eliza- 
beth, the newly installed inmate of the 
house found her cheeks again wet with 
tears ; and her voice refused an audible an- 
swer to the final Good-night, mother.” 


90 


billy’s mother. 


Mrs. Cochrane could not sleep for hours 
after retiring ; the very stillness of the coun- 
try home was oppressive, and she longed 
for the morrow to come that she might hear 
the sweet words, “ Mother” and “ Grandma” 
again, and hold the baby’s velvet cheeks 
against her own. She almost feared that if 
she slept she would wake in the noise and 
bustle of New York ; in the old shabby 
room, or the crowded hospital ward. In 
fact, it was several days before she felt the 
perfect rest of security, and slept as the 
aged should always sleep, with no vein of 
care in their dreams. 

“ Billy’s boys ” were wonderfully bright 
and active in grandma’s eyes. They were a 
source of terror, and a well of delight ; she 
expected to see necks broken, skulls frac- 
tured, and limbs demoralized, when she wit- 
nessed their pranks, and was always sur- 
prised at their apparently hair-breadth es- 
capes. Their affection delighted her ; their 
questions bewildered her ; their obedience 
was a perpetual source of astonishment to 
her. She had previously believed that boys 
were a sort of diabolical invention for the 
testing of motherly love ; that in occasional 


BILLY S MOTHER. 


91 


cases they reformed, and became useful 
men, even lovable in character just often 
enough to prevent the repetition of the 
tragedy at Sodom, although she had but a 
vague idea of that catastrophe. Billy’s boys 
would “forget” sometimes, and needed re- 
proof, but they tried to heed it conscien- 
tiously, which vas more than half the battle 
for right, 

“ I think you be a leetle strict with ’em, 
Billy,” whispered their grandma one day, 
when some ebullition of spirits had brought 
all three into the range of a sharp disci- 
pline. 

“ No, mother,” Mr. Cochrane replied, “ I 
do not intend to spoil my boys by giving 
them all their own way, and so make un- 
grateful scoundrels of them, like their father 
was, until he learned that there was no 
friend like his mother, and no place like his 
home.” 

“ Now, Billy, I can’t hear you condemn 
yourself that way,” his mother answered 
softly. 

“ I cannot blame you, mother ; you were 
only a girl in years when I was a great, 
headstrong boy. I needed a man’s strong 


92 


billy’s mother. 


will to guide and control me. 'I bullied 
you, and at last deserted you, and my boys 
shall be taught differently. Their mother 
would spoil them, just as you spoiled me, if 
I did not keep them well in hand myself.” 

“ Well, Billy, mebbe you be right.” 

“ I give them all the chance for fun they 
want ; their mother makes home pleasant 
for them, and now they have their little 
sister and you. I tell you, mother, there 
were never three wide-awake frolicsome 
boys who had so much to make them happy 
as my three here.” 

“ Thet’s so, Billy, thet’s so,” was the an- 
swer, with a half-sad retrospection of her 
own boy’s childhood, “an’ thet makes up to 
ye havin’ no father to remember, an’ no 
home but the sea for so many years,” 

“ Well, mother, I must say I am a happy, 
contented man, now ; but I was never con- 
tented before, not knowing if you were 
dead, or in want, or where you were. 
I never had a slice of good fortune without 
wishing you had a share in it.” 

“ Thet’s your father over again, Billy, 
he wuz kin’ hearted as could be.” 

“ When I asked Elizabeth to be my wife 


billy’s mother. 


93 


(her father was my captain once, and she 
and her mother voyaged with us to China 
and back), the old captain said to me : 
‘Now, Billy, take an old man’s advice quit 
the sea, and settle down with your wife on 
a farm, somewhere near enough to the 
coast, that you can smell salt water ; and 
make it your business to hunt up your 
mother.’ 

“Well, I took his advice. I was not 
contented at first, but the babies bound 
me to land after a while. 

“ Sometimes I was confident that I had 
heard of you, and away I would go in a 
hurry ; but it was only to find some other 
poor soul, as needy and sorrowful as you 
were. Be sure, mother, I would give her 
a hand for your sake.” 

“You dear, good boy; it makes me all 
warm up to hear ye ; go on, Billy.” 

“ The old neighbors, whose names I re- 
membered, had all moved away ; and no 
trace of you could I find. Sometimes 
swindlers would try to deceive me for the 
money they wanted ; and they would tell 
such likely stories, it would seem as 
though they must be true. But after I 


94 


billy’s mother. 


had been deceived a few times, I learned to 
investigate the stories thoroughly before I 
invested much money in them.” 

“ Oh ! Billy, what a head you hev.” 

“ I had almost made up my mind to give 
up the chase, when I received a telegram 
that read : ‘ You’re wanted immediate^ — 
Peter Bowes.’ 

“We were at the breakfast table when 
the telegram came, and I was so aston- 
ished I could not read it out loud, so I 
passed it to Elizabeth. She said, ‘ That 
means your mother is found ; take the 
first train, and send me word if I am 
needed ’ ; and in another minute she was off 
like a rocket, ordering the carriage, getting 
out my great-coat, and looking into my 
wallet to see how much money I had ready ; 
but I just sat there like a stone until she 
said : ‘ There is no time to lose, Billy ; you 
can just catch the train.’ I do not believe 
I knew what I was about until she was 
pushing me out of the door, and saying, 
‘ If you can bring her home, telegraph to 
me, and I will have her room all ready.’ 

“ ‘ Her room ! ’ hed ye med me a room, 
Billy ? ” 


billy's mother. 


95 


Well, mother, we had ; although we 
had never called it by that name. You see, 
that sharp little woman of mine has a way 
of reading my thoughts that would aston- 
ish you ; and she knew, as well as though 
I had said so, that that extension was for 
you whenever I could find you. When the 
house was being built I called that room 
my study ; and after we moved in, Elizabeth 
proposed to furnish it very cozily. ' When 
we have old folks visiting us, we will put 
them in there out of the way of the chil- 
dren's noise,' she said. We both of us knew 
that it was this room she referred to when 
she was fairly pushing me down the steps 
to the carriage. 

'‘I was very soon rushing away toward 
New York ; and just as I came out of 
the ferry-house Peter Bowes caught my 
sleeve. He had watched there an hour be- 
fore the train came in, and would have 
stood there until he saw me, if it had been 
twenty-four hours. We turned out of the 
crowd, neither one of us saying a word for 
a few minutes. I could not have spoken if 
I had tried to." 

'' Oh ! Billy, what a warm heart ye hev 
fer yer old mother. What did Peter say?” 


96 


billy’s mother. 


“ His throat was as full as mine I guess, 
for the tears were dropping from his eyes, 
and he was very slow about speaking ; but 
at last he said : ‘ Well, mate, yer mother’s 
lookin’ for ye,’ and he spread out before 
my eyes one of the bills Doctor Wyckliffe 
had posted all about the hotels. ‘ I ain’t 
told nobody yet, Billy,’ said he, ‘ but when 
I seed that poster, I just sailed straight 
through it onct, and then I hobbled off an’ 
sent ye that word ; wasn’t it lucky I knowed 
where ye was.’ I only said, ‘ Thank you, 
mate, ’ to old Peter, and was off for that 
number without any pushing. The rain was 
no hinderance. I put ahead, all sail on, as we 
say at sea. I was greatly disappointed when 
I saw the Doctor, and found I must seek 
another harbor before I saw you. On our 
way to the hospital I stopped just long 
enough to telegraph to Elizabeth : ‘ Moth- 
er’s all right ; home to-morrow ; have the 
room ready.’” 

“ I don’t see how you did so much in two 
days, Billy.” 

“ Money, mother, that’s the secret ; if a 
man can jingle gold in his pocket while he is 
asking for a thing he is almost sure to get it.” 


MOTHER. 


97 


billy’s 








98 


billy’s mother. 


“ An’ ef he hesn’t the money he won’t get 
even civil words, Billy.” 

“ Poor mother ; I am afraid you know the 
sound of uncivil words better than of civil 
ones ; but we will try to make you forget all 
that bitter past. 

“ If you could have read, mother, we 
would have met years ago, for I advertised 
for information regarding you several times. 
Or if you had thought to go to police head- 
quarters and ask them to find me, they 
could have done so, as they knew the whole 
story there for years. I offered rewards, 
but never a clue could I obtain. To think 
of it, I have passed through Sanger Street 
many times while you lived there.” 

“New York is like a wild desert, ain’t it, 
Billy.” 

“Yes, mother, it is like a desert to some, 
and a wilderness to others, a veritable haunt 
of beasts of prey, as well as the home of 
many who endeavor to benefit their kind. 
But you, my poor lonely mother, met the 
bad people easiest and oftenest.” 

“ Oh, Billy, menny ez poor ez me wuz 
good to me.” 

“ I am glad if there were any bright spots 


BILLY 8 MOTHER. 


99 


in the dark life, mother ; but most of all am 
I glad that the dark life has found an end- 
ing, where you may realize some of the 
beauties of this world.’' 

'' There wuz a lady used to come into 
Ward 9 an’ read to us sick ones. She give 
me a story she writ about the country, an’ 
tole me all about it. I think it’s here ; won’t 
you read it to me, Billy ?” 

'' Elizabeth reads out loud better than I 
do ; she will read it. I see it is a story 
about the country.” 

I didn’t think then I’d ever be livin’ 
among the trees myself,” said grandma, as 
Mrs. Cochrane read : 

A MORNING’S RIDE. 

Now, my Bonny Bess, away ! 

In the light of early day ; 

Leave the tracks of eager feet 
On the pra’rie, flower sweet. 

Scat’ring dewdrops with her wings, 

From the grass, the wild bird springs 
With a vague increasing fear, 

Of the foot-falls drawing near. 

Her brown head, a mother quail — 

As my skirts in pra’rie gale. 


lOO 


billy’s mother. 


Rustling, flutter near the nest — 

Lifts, and thinks, They come in quest.^’ 

Tripping out with fairy feet, 

In the dew of grass-grown street ; 

On he hastes, ne’er looking back 
At the true, and dainty track. 

Easy Bess, with step so light. 

You may cause her farther flight. 

Fairy of the hazlewood 
True, wee type of motherhood. 

‘‘ What a merry chase,” think we. 

“ What a race I’ve had,” says she. 

Now they’re fairly off the track, 

Guess I’ll dodge and hurry back.” 

From our path, with that intent; 
Through the brush, her way is bent. 

To the spot where nestlings small, 
Answer to her brooding call. 

Quiet, Bess, and have a drink 
From this streamlet’s crystal brink. 
Homeward then, e’er yet the sun 
His jewel gath’ring has done. 

Swiftly passing o’er the hill, 

And the slope toward the mill ; 

Mimic gems, in dew have we, 

Swept from grass and web hung tree. 


billy’s mother.. 


lOI 


All my being gladness thrilled ; 

All my veins with vigor filled. 
Thank you, Bessie, for the treat, 
Air, and odors wond’rous sweet. 

Of that charming morning ride. 

Of my pony eager eyed. 

Track of quail, like ribbon strung, 
I’ve a picture framed, and hung. 

Fairy hung in mem’ry’s hall, 

Where I gaze in sweet enthrall ; 
Stranger eyes may fail to see. 

All the joy there held for me. 

Homesick ; from the dust and din, 
Of the city I am in. 

Turn I oft, with thoughts of rest, 
To the pra’ries of the West. 


CHAPTER VIL 



■RS. COCHRANE had been in her 
new home some days, when a let- 
ter, addressed to her, was brought 
to her by her son. 

She was quite impatient for the reading of 
it, although she childishly toyed with it for 
a little time, guessing at the contents and 
author ; then leaning eagerly towards her 
daughter-in-law, she listened attentively, al- 
though with frequent interjections of “Oh 
my,’’ “ Poor dear,” and similar expressions 
of sympathy and astonishment. The letter 
ran thus ; 


Riverside Hospital, N. Y. City, 
March 29, 1877. 

My Dear Friend ; 

We are all very anxious to know how you endured 
your journey, and whether you continue to improve 
in health. Of this last I am almost sure, but it would 
still be a pleasure to learn the fact from you per- 
sonally. 

If your son is as generous in all other matters, as 
he has been to all those who have manifested an in- 
terest in your welfare, your new home must be a 
paradise. 


billy’s mother. 


103 


Please say to your son that my watch is good 
company ” ; it was a very pleasant surprise to re- 
ceive so useful and valuable a present. I should not 
like to part with it even after so few days of pos- 
session. 

I do not repeat to any one the words referred to 
in the inscription ; and there has been at least a slight 
searching of the Scriptures in consequence, by people 
who had seldom thought of doing so until now. 

Our patients enjoyed their feast to the fullest possi- 
ble extent, although some of the things ordered by 
your son were finally excluded from the wards, by 
order of the house-surgeon. They were not thrown 
away, however, but made glad for one meal at least, 
the old people in the almshouse on Blackwell’s Island. 

^‘Old Bob,” as the gate-keeper is called, says that 
he has passed Mr. Cochrane many times on the 
street. Every day he repeats his regrets that he did 
not know the story, so that he could have collared 
the chap and marched him off to his mother.” The 
puzzle, of course, is how would he have known where 
to find you. 

Jennie Lawton, the hair-dresser, is now quite as 
well as she ever will be; she was discharged yester- 
day, but has no work, and is almost discouraged. 
She came in this afternoon for her little bundle, and 
inquired about you. She loves you very dearly, and 
was evidently disappointed that I had not heard 
from you. 

Mary Cravens was also here to-day hoping to hear 
from you. Her rent has been raised two dollars a 
month, and she has no work this week, consequently 


104 billy’s mother. 

she is quite worried, for her, you know she is natur- 
ally very cheerful. 

All your friends, from our good warden and the 
doctors to lame Dick in the store-room (Dick says he 
resided at 15 Sanger Street last year), and, of course, 
including Old Bob, have begged me to write to you. 
They all send good wishes, and hope that you will 
write at least once. Give us a peep at your new 
home, and newly found kindred. 

Yours, most sincerely, 

Laura B. Martin. 

The reading completed, Mrs. Cochrane 
withdrew, and left grandma to the quiet of 
her room that she might, undisturbed, think 
over the contents of the first letter she had 
received in many years. The door into the 
hall stood ajar, and she heard her son’s foot- 
steps passing her door. No matter how 
deep or how pleasant the reverie into which 
she had fallen, that sound would rouse her. 
Leaning forward, she called eagerly — 
Billy.” 

'' Yes, mother,” and the grey head passed 
the angle of the half-open door. 

'' Come in, Billy, I’ve suthin’ to say to 
ye.” 

Very soon, mother ; I am only going 
out to the barn a few minutes, and around 


BILLY S MOTHER, 


105 


to the corn house to see how my new men 
get on. Spring is here at last, and a farm- 
er s busy time is close at hand.” 

As the sound of his firm, even step, died 
away in the distance, his mother said to her- 
self, yet aloud, ‘‘ The new men what comes 
to work for my Billy is lucky ones, fer Tm 
fain to think ther ain't menny sich masters 
an' mistresses az Billy an' 'Liz'beth." She 
was still nodding a pleased acquiescence in 
her own thought when the object of them 
returned and entered the cozy room with the 
air of one who is sure of a welcome. 

'' Now, mother, I am ready to hear you,” 
he said, as he settled himself comfortably in 
his favorite chair. 

Read this letter first, Billy," and grand- 
ma, handing it to him, scanned his face 
rather anxiously until the letter was re- 
turned. 

'' Billy.” There was a tremor of hesita- 
tion in his mother's voice. ''You’ve done 
lots uv handsome things since I've come 
home, but — won't ye do some more ?" 

" Certainly, mother, I will do anything 
that comes within the scope of my ability 
when it will add to your happiness." 


io6 


billy’s mother. 


“ Well, Billy, there’s Mary Cravens ; she’s 
a real smart woman, an’ good. Wy, Billy, 
she’s good ez ’Liz’beth, ef she ain’t ez hand- 
some ez she might be. She gin me half her 
last slice menny a time. Can’t ye do suthin’ 
fer her, Billy ?” 

“ I can, mother, and, what’s better, I 
will.” 

“Thank ye, Billy. Then there’s Jennie 
Lawton; she’s a orphan girl, with a spine 
sickness, an’ hez no money. She is that 
kin’ she’d ought to hev kin’ness back agin.” 

“ I will attend to her case, mother. Now, 
who else ?” 

“Well, Billy, ef ye would see about thet 
p’leeceman who used to look after me, an 
drive the boys away when theywuz follerin’ 
me. He gin me a pail o’ coal twicst, an’ 
kerried me up them long stairs the day I 
fell. He’s hed trouble, or he’d never be so 
kin’ to them in trouble. ’Tain’t noways 
likely he is a-needin’ uv yer help, Billy, but 
mebbe ef y’d see him an’ thank him like fer 
me, ’pears ter me he’d mebbe feel kin’ o’ 
pleesed at it.” 

“ Mother, dear, you have learned the 
weaknesses and vanities of our poor human- 


BILLY S MOTHER. 


107 


ity very thoroughly. I will find out your 
kind protector and thank him, at least ; pos- 
sibly I may be able to render him some 
service.” 

“ I hope so, Billy, fer we all on us wants 
suthin’, I fin’, thet we can’t do fer oursels.” 

“ Is there anyone else, mother?” and the 
good man laughed outright. 

“ I guess thet’s all now, Billy. I’m so 
glad ye gin Miss Martin a watch and the 
sick ones a dinner. Did ye do anythin’ fer 
Doctor Wyckliffe, Billy?” 

“No, mother; the doctor would have 
been offended if I had offered him a pres- 
ent. What he did for you was simply a 
tribute to his own mother. A man or boy 
who truly loves and honors his own mother, 
or wife, or sister, will treat all other women 
with genuine kindness and courtesy.” 

“ It must hev cost the doctor a heap o’ 
money, all he did in them two months.” 

“ I did not like to ask the blunt question, 
‘How much has it cost you?’ But I 
brought the matter around easy when I was 
saying good-bye to him the morning I 
brought you home. He just laughed, and 
said, ‘ That is all settled, sir.’ So I am in 


io8 billy’s mother. 

his debt yet, and do not see now just how I 
am to get out of it.” 

Mrs. Cochrane re-entered the room and 
joined in the conversation by saying, “ It 
was very thoughtful of you to give Miss 
Martin something useful as well as pretty. 
How nicely she writes about it ; mother is 
quite proud of her letter.” 

“Yes, ’Liz’beth, I am; an’ Billy, what is 
it she means about the scriptur’ ?” inquired 
his mother. 

“ I was wondering also about the inscrip- 
tion,” coincided his wife. 

“It was, 'To Laura B. Martin, from Wil-. 
liam Cochrane, New York, March 20, 1877. 
Proverbs, 31—29,’” he replied. 

“ And what does that mean, Billy ?” Mr. 
Cochrane repeated the verse. “ There 
couldn’t never be nothin’ fitter’n thet, Billy, 
for she’s the patientest, lovinest woman ever 
wuz. I’m fain to think.” Then grandma 
rose, and, clasping her son’s face with both 
hands, kissed him several times, saying, 
“Ye don’t never forget nothin’ thet’s right 
to do ; do ye, Billy ?” 

“ I fear that I do forget very frequently, 
mother ; but I shall not forget any of your 


billy's mother. 109 

friends. If you wish for anything from the 
city, tell me to-night, as I shall be off in the 
first train to-morrow morning and execute 
your commission” 

“ So soon, Billy?” 

“Yes, mother; I was intending to go to 
the city one day this week, and may as well 
make it to-morrow.” 

“ Ye won’t do nothin’ ’bout Mary or Jen- 
nie till ye’ve talked with ’Liz’beth, will ye, 
Billy ?” 

“ No, mother,” and he and his wife 
laughed merrily. 

“Well, Billy, I’ve seen heaps uv trouble 
in -houses where I used to go sewin’, after 
yer father and my father died ; an’ I’m fain 
to think ef wives an’ husbands, an’ chil- 
dren an’ mothers ’ud talk over things them- 
selves, an’ not go a gaddin’ an’ talkin’ ter 
outsiders, they’d never be half uv the trouble, 
an’ cryin’ an’ mistrustin’ of them as ought 
to love each other dearly, an’ a doin’ uv 
things sly is jest ez bad.” 

Mrs. Cochrane tweaked her husband’s 
ear, as she said, “ What do you think of 
that, sir?” 

“ W’y, ’Liz’beth, Billy ain’t never got any 


I lO 


billy’s mother. 


sly ways,” exclaimed his mother in an as- 
tonished tone. 

“ Oh ! but he has, mother. I find him 
out sometimes ; for instance, like his giving 
that dinner to the invalids, and the watch 
to Miss Martin.” 

“Well, ’Liz’beth, there wuz no time fer 
him ter tell ye.” 

“ She is only teasing you, mother.” 

“ Oh, mebbe she is.” 

“Yes, mother dear, I was teasing you a 
little. Billy does many things without con- 
sulting me ; but they are things that do not 
affect me or the children, except when he 
gives us some happy surprise, and he is a 
great hand at that, mother.” 

Mr. Cochrane was away on his journey 
the next morning before his mother had 
risen, and five days elapsed before his re- 
turn. He did not then come as he had 
gone, alone, but assisted from the carriage 
a pale, sweet-faced girl, slightly stooped, 
and with the peculiarly frail hands which 
accompany spinal troubles. 

Mrs. Cochrane greeted her with pleasant 
words. Grandma with warm expressions 
of delight. The girl nothing answered ; 


billy’s mother. 


Ill 


her lips were trembling, her eyes dewy, and 
with quick intuition those '' household an- 
gels divined the cause of her silence, 
and chatted to each other as they led the 
way to grandma’s room, where at last the 
tardy words found this utterance, as she 
threw her arms about the neck of her old 
friend : '‘I am so glad to see you again ; 
how beautiful you are grown.” 

Mr. Cochrane, joining them, said : Mo- 
ther, I brought Jennie Lawton home with 
me to be your companion. I think from 
present indications you will get on capitally 
together.” 

'' Oh ! Mr. Cochrane, I loved your mother 
in that dreary old hospital, where we could 
not have nice long chats as we can have 
here.” 

'' When the weather is fine, you must 
take my mother out in the phaeton. Miss 
Jennie. Dick is gentle ; you will soon learn 
how, never fear. John will hitch Dick up 
for you any time, and teach you to drive.” 

Then turning to his mother, he said : 
'' Help Jennie to make herself at home, 
now, mother.” Her trunks will be here 
sometime to-day ; wife will give her a room 


I 12 


BILLY S MOTHER. 


upstairs. I will have a bell put in, so that 
you can call her any time you wish.” 

“What can I do to pay you, Mr. Coch- 
rane ? ” said Jennie. 

“ Oh ! put in your time amusing my 
mother, and making her and my wife look 
pretty ; if they do not keep you busy, try 
your hand on my roguish boys, or my baby 
girl, whom you have not seen yet,” and Mr. 
Cochrane made his escape from any protes- 
tations of gratitude on the part of his 
mother or Jennie. 

As the door closed behind him Jennie 
began to cry. Grandma looked at her in 
surprise, exclaiming, “ What ails ye, child, 
ye ain’t homesick fer New York?” 

“ No ! no ! but Mr. Cochrane is so like 
my dear, good, kind father, and I’m so un- 
used to kindness since he died.” 

“ Dry yer eyes, an’ get used to it, my 
dear, for there’s never nothin’ else here,” 
very earnestly from grandma, as she was 
conscious of speaking the unexaggerated 
truth. 

“What did he mean by my trunks?” 
queried Jennie. “ I had only a little bundle 
of clothes, my combs and brushes, a sew- 


BILLY S MOTHER. 


1^3 

ing-machine, and a few little keepsakes in 
my room. I packed all, but the machine, 
in one little bit of a box.” 

'' Well, dearie, you jest wait an’ see the 
trunks. My Billy never says nothin’ that 
ain’t so.” 

Jennie waited as she was bidden, but it 
must be confessed, with the curiosity of a 
young girl ; her keen eyes were the first to 
discover the arrival of the familiar sewing- 
machine and the equally well-known box 
which did duty alternately as a coal-box 
and a packing trunk ; being an example of 
Jennie’s ingenuity, as it was only an ordi- 
nary dry-goods box, painted black, the lid 
strap-hinged, and strap-fastened as well. 
Accompanying the articles which she had 
mentally identified as her own, were two 
large, plain packing trunks, bright and new. 

Here are your keys, child,” said Mr. 
Cochrane, handing two to Jennie as he 
spoke. Now be off to your room, little 
girl, and rummage to your heart’s content.” 

'' Grandma, will you come too, please?” 
said Jennie as she laid her hand on the 
stair-rail, to follow the last one of the 
trunks up to her room. 


BILLY S MOTHER. 


II4 

Mr. Cochrane must certainly have se- 
cured the efficient services of the brisk 
little purchasing agent again. Everything 
that a tasteful young girl companion, to a 
tidy old lady, in a gentleman’s house, could 
need, was there ; either made up, or com- 
plete in the material needed for making. 

When the trunks w^ere quite empty, and 
the various garments and notions had passed 
inspection, Jennie sat on the floor, her face 
flushed with excitement, her hands clasped 
about her knees, while the half-parted lips 
uttered no sound. The emotions of sur- 
prise and gladness overwhelmed her. 

“ Its all jest like my Billy,” said grandma, 
surveying the chaos of dry goods with 
pleased eyes. 

“ And it’s so like my own dear papa,” 
answered Jennie; “he was a gentleman, 
with such delicate tastes. These are just 
such things as he would have chosen for 
me. Oh ! if I could have kept my papa,” 
and the over-wrought heart burst the bonds 
the resolute girl had frequently set for it, 
by a “ good cry.” 

Grandma wisely held her peace, stroking 
the soft tresses on the girl’s shapely head. 


billy’s mother. I I 5 

and as the sobs died away she turned to 
the pile of dresses, saying, “ Now, child. 
I’ll help you clear up, an’ hang yer dresses 
fer ye.” 

“ How in the world did Mr. Cochrane 
find out what a girl wants to wear ? ” queried 
Jennie. 

“Well, ye see, Billy, he knows thet 
woman that brung all my things to the 
hospital, an’ he’s got her ter buy ’em. 
’Pears like he hez a way of seein’ what’s 
wantin’ hisself too ; an’ he jest puts his han’ 
in his pocket an’ sez, ‘ Do this, an’ do that ; 
I’ll pay the damage.’ ” 

“ But it is not every man who has a 
pocketful of money, to put his hand into, 
like Mr. Cochrane has,” rejoined Jennie. 

“Nor menny ez hez a heart to fit the 
pocket an’ use it fer the good of folks, 
ez my Billy hez,” proudly from grandma. 

When the dinner-bell rang, they all 
gathered in the sunny dining-room. The 
boys eagerly eyed Jennie, endeavoring 
to make some advances in the way of 
acquaintanceship, while grandma was quite 
as eagerly interviewing her son. 

“ Did ye find Mary Cravens, Billy ? ” was 
the first question. 


billy’s mother. 


1 16 

“ I did, mother, and she was very glad 
to hear from you.” 

“ I know she wuz glad ter see ye, Billy,” 
and a smile — indicative of her confidence in 
his ability to lighten heart burdens — bright- 
ened her face. 

Truth to tell, she would not have 
been surprised to see any one who had ever 
given her a kindly look, walk into that 
home which seemed to be as expansive and 
accommodating as a Broadway omnibus. 

As to whether grandma had any prophet- 
ic visions of the future welfare of her old 
friends or not, there is no authority for say- 
ing. But one by one they came to her. 

Jennie was in raptures, although not of 
the demonstrative sort. “Her eyes laugh 
more than her mouth,” said Danny, who 
enjoyed a hearty ha ! ha ! and could find 
many occasions for gratifying his taste in 
that direction. 

The week of Jennie’s arrival was an es- 
pecially busy one, for it bordered on the 
joyous Easter. As Billy, Jr., hastened away 
every afternoon to practice in the choir, 
Jennie’s eyes plead for an invitation to go 
with him, which was given at last ; and he 


billy’s mother. 


II7 


was as delighted as could be, whispering to 
his mother on his return, “Jennie has the 
sweetest voice I ever heard.” 

On Good Friday afternoon there arrived 
at the Cochrane homestead a goodly sized 
box, from which a sweet odor was con- 
stantly escaping. 

Albert laboriously spelled out the letter- 
ing. Billy, Jr., hastened to bring hammer 
and lever. Grandma and mamma, Jennie 
and the good-natured cook, waited about in 
close proximity, while Billy, Jr., pried off the 
lid, lifted some layers of dried sea-grass, 
then some of cotton batting, and displayed 
a host of Bermuda lilies. 

The “ Ah’s” and “ Oh’s” were numerous. 
Clare was determined to climb right into the 
fragrant bed. Danny begged “ Mamma, 
please let me have one.” While Albert 
looked on in wondering silence. 

“Well, well,” exclaimed Mrs. Cochrane, 
“ this will not answer; these lilies are to be 
carried over to the church and arranged, 
so we must be at work.” 

“ May I go and help you ?” Jennie asked, 
timidly. 

“ Certainly, my dear ; get on your hat. 
Clare will stay with her grandma, and we 


billy’s mother. , 


1 18 

will go over in the wagonette with the 
flowers.” 

Busily the fingers worked, while the 
tongues kept time with cheery words and 
consultations. A large number of ladies 
were already at the church, when the “ Ber- 
mudas ” with their guard of honor arrived. 

The evergreens were all arranged, the po- 
sitions for the lilies definitely located, and 
then the ladies left the pure waxen bells to 
sleep a little longer in their cotton beds. 

Frequently during the afternoon Mrs. 
Cochrane heard the words of a carol break- 
ing softly through Jennie’s lips. The re- 
frain was, “Joy, joy, to the world a Sa- 
viour is born,” and Mrs. Cochrane thought 
“ Those words have a deeper, holier mean- 
ing to that poor, lonely child, than they 
ever had before.” 

“You look as glad as though it was 
Christmas,” said Danny, as he turned a 
dainty Easter egg in his hand, and ob- 
served Jennie admiring one at her own 
plate. 

“ Easter is more joyful than Christmas 
to me,” she answered. 

“ Why ? ” 


billy’s mother. 


II9 


“ Christmas commemorates the birth of 
our Saviour ; but on Easter morning he rose 
from the dead. That seems to me the more 
wonderful and beautiful of the two,” she 
answered. 

Silence reigned about the table for a 
little time then, as the thoughtful heads 
of that household believed that good seed 
might be over-tended and too often watered ; 
if each grain as it fell was singled out for 
marked, particular, and instantaneous cul- 
ture. They were willing to concede to their 
boys sufficient common sense and discern- 
ment to know when a good thing had been 
said or a good act performed. 

For the first time in years, “ Billy’s 
mother,” attended the Easter service with 
“ kith and kin.” 

The Bermuda lilies had been most effec- 
tively placed, the music was praiseful, 
the sermon was a grand exposition of the 
Gospel. The congregation was devout, 
and altogether, the dear old lady thought 
it the most precious Easter-tide she had 
ever known. 

On their way home she said, “ It wuz so 
peaceful, an’ quiet like, jest what it ought 


I 20 


BILLY S MOTHER. ' 


ter be. Now, in the city, the wimmen run 
round in their new finery, a lookin’ after 
each other, an’ a tryin’ to make their own 
church the finest, ’til it used to ’pear ter 
me ther’ wasn’t much prayin’ an’ thankin’ 
long with the flowers.” 

“ I have thought so sometimes, grand- 
ma,” answered Jennie, gently, “but this 
Easter has seemed so like when I had 
p^a, and my dear old grandpa, who was a 
clergyman. Now I have you, oh ! and all 
of you. I don’t know which I love best. 
Isn’t it nice to have somebody to love, 
grandma?” 

“ Yes, dearie, an’ I hope ye’ll never want 
fer love agin ez long ez ye live.” 

In memory of that first joyous Sab- 
bath in her new home, Jennie kept a few 
of the lilies, carefully treating them with 
paraffine, and covering them with a glass 
shade ; while Mrs. Cochrane laid away 
among her treasures a poem (which came 
with the lilies) written by a friend who was 
wintering in that charming Island. 

Remembering how bleak the early spring 
was apt to be in and near New York, the 
contrast of the wealth of lilies growing in 
the open air, had called forth the poem. 


billy’s mother. 


I2I 


EASTER LILLIES. 

Each em’rald stem a waxen cup 
From fosLring earth hath lifted up, 

Like drifts of snow, they deck the lawn, 
Until the nearing Easter dawn.” 

Then loving hands shall deftly twine 
With palm, and fern, and spray of vine, 
O’er nave and font, and chancel rail. 
The garlands fair will climb and trail. 
And waiting hearts in joy will hail 
The lifting hour of sombre veil, 

When moon and stars so far and pale 
Drift down the west with cloud mist-sail. 
And Heralds ” mount the eastern sky, 
And day of praise is drawing nigh. 


The gleaming rays of Easter morn, 

The pearly sheen will more adorn. 

As softly through the gothic pane 
They droop to flood the inner fane. 

With gold and blue, and em’rald stain. 

In many hearts anew shall reign 

The Christian’s hope ; while chanted psalm 

Enwraps the soul in wond’rous calm. 

Oh ! then shall rise such anthem sweet, 
That earth, and heaven shall seem to meet. 
If but our hearts as pure might grow. 

As these so like the air-held snow 
On Easter morn,” what need would we 
To lift again repentant plea ? 


2 


billy's mother. 


And here so far from home and friends, 

We yet can know our praising blends. 

For He, who burst ^Hhe bonds of Death,^' 
Whose praise we sing with awesome breath. 
With tender care, and love so free — 

Holds fast the Islets of the sea ; 

E’er since of Easter morns, the first 
O’er all the world in glory burst. 

In other lands the fairy vase — 

Will other fanes, and chancel’s grace. 

And who shall say the odors sweet ; 

Aid not the wings that bear so fleet 
The offered prayers to ‘‘Mercy’s seat,’’ 

To come again with blessings mete. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


FEW days later Mr. Cochrane dis- 
patched John to the depot with the 
farm wagon, and there was such an 
air of mystery about the movement that 
the boys began to tease first one and then 
another of the family, for an answer to the 
query, “What is John going to bring 
home?” 

Grandma, to whom they appealed sev- 
eral times, was not informed of the proba- 
bilities, and evidently shared the curiosity. 
When Mr. Cochrane followed John with 
the buggy, the interest in the proceeding 
reached anxiety ; but that bland gentleman 
only smiled, and said : “ Now, little folks, 
while I follow John, and ascertain what he 
is after, do you coax Jennie to read the 
story of ‘The Miller of Dee.’” 

Away they went, Danny and Albert, with 
Clare trotting after at the eminent risk of 
bumping her precious little nose. “ Papa 
says please read ‘The Miller of Dee’ to us, 
Jennie; will you?” said Danny, who had 


124 


BILLY S MOTHER. 


come in ahead in the race. Albert chimed 
in Please do, Jennie, if it’s as nice as ' The 
Land of Nod.’” 

Clare evidently added her plea, although 
her attempts at talking were not very intel- 
ligible. 

Jennie, surrounded by the persistent be- 
seigers, acquiesced. ''The Miller of Dee” 
was followed by "The Land of Nod,” and 
"John Gilpin ” was on his return journey 
when the sound of wheels broke the spell 
of enchantment. "John Gilpin ” was aban- 
doned to his fate, and John, the hired man, 
became the object of the attention of the 
little circle. 

" Some more of grandma’s friends, I 
guess,” said Danny. 

"Yes, darling, it’s my ole neighbor, Mary 
Cravens, and her little girl. She’s moved 
out here to stay I guess, fer there’s her 
things, an’ my ole arm-chair, too.” 

" Oh ! I see ; that is why papa had the 
carpenters at the old house. John is driv- 
ing on down there.” 

By that time the strangers had alighted 
from the buggy, and were receiving the 
greetings of the family, to whom grandma 


billy’s mother. 125 

introduced them with much pride and pleas- 
ure. 

As soon as the cottage was sufficiently 
warmed by the generous fire which John 
had kindled, Mary Cravens took possession 
of her new home, and “got things to 
rights ” with an energy quite surprising 
even to herself. 

She fancied that Dolly began to grow at 
once as she had never grown before, which 
would not be strange, considering the speed 
and constancy with which she used her 
little feet. The thought gave the tender- 
hearted mother much joy, and evoked many 
heart-felt prayers, in behalf of her new 
friends. 

But few days were needed for the ‘ ‘ set- 
tling” of her household goods, although 
she found that her store increased at some 
corner every day. Billy, Jr., would pop in, 
and set down something, saying, “ Mamma 
has two of these, and she don’t need but 
one”; or John would knock at the back 
door with the toe of his boot, and when 
Mary answered the summons, she would 
find a queer looking pile of odds and ends 
of household goods, with a man’s voice 


126 


billy’s mother. 


somewhere behind it saying, “ Miss Cockern 
sent ye these if ye’ve room fer ’em, mem.” 

One by one the goods would be deftly 
set inside the door; John, quite unloaded, 
would bow, or touch his hat, and take him- 
self off, to be ready for the next consign- 
ment of articles useful and decorative. 

The large family of her generous land- 
lord furnished constant employment to the 
new tenant of “the old house.” Jennie’s 
sewing-machine changed owners, and made 
merry music for Mary Cravens instead. 

The busy seamstress sometimes thought 
that there had never been such boys to 
make and mend for, as the boys “ up at 
the house.” 

They were so full of mischief that cloth 
seemed to part in convulsions at their 
pranks. Twice sewed seams yawned and 
stretched as though by magical influence, 
until the thread yielded, and the garments 
were taken back for repairs. 

Then, there were so many pretty things 
to be made for baby Clare that Mary Cra- 
vens had never an idle hour ; but the best 
part of that story is, she was amply, justly, 
and promptly remunerated for all her 
work. 


billy's mother. 


127 


Dolly and her busy mother were but just 
beginning to feel really at home when their 
old friend, the policeman, of whom frequent 
mention has been made, came to spend his 
five days of vacation at the same cozy quar- 
ters, bringing with him his motherless boy, 
who was sadly deformed, and as pale as a 
little ghost, but his father s most precious 
treasure. 

Mr. and Mrs. Cochrane at once conceiv- 
ed a plan by which Jimmy Parks could re- 
main with Mary Cravens during the sum- 
mer. It goes without saying that their 
plan succeeded, as all their plans were wont 
to do. 

It was almost painful to witness the be- 
wilderment of the little chap, who had 
never dreamed of the possibility that the 
world could be so enchantingly beautiful as 
he found it. 

He had only known man's world of bricks 
and mortar, chimneys and sidewalks, stunted 
trees, and closely mown grass, fenced in by 
iron railings, or barred away from eager 
feet by mathematically exact paths of heat- 
absorbing concrete ; and the staring legend 
in great red and black letters, '' Keep off 
the grass.’' 


128 


billy’s mother. 


This ; oh ! this, was God’s world of slo- 
ping hills, and dimpled valleys, singing trees, 
and gladsome verdure ; trilling birds, and 
contented kine ; pure sweet air, and room. 
Oh! what joy, room for a little lame boy 
to pass about without being whacked on 
the elbows, tramped on the toes, and order- 
ed out of the way by impatient pedestrians. 

Room to roll over on the sward, to bury 
his little pale face in the sweet scented 
breast of mother earth ; to note unreproved 
the ardbitious blades of grass stretching 
skyward, uncropped and untended in their 
beauty. 

He actually dug up the soft earth with 
his little bare toes, wearing the while a rev- 
erential air quite amusing to the unseen 
onlookers. 

Grown still more familiar with out-door 
life, he awesomely made a mud pie, and 
left it to bake in the faintly warm April 
sun. That the pie crumbled puzzled him, 
as he had minutely followed the directions 
given him by Albert Cochrane and Dolly 
Cravens, who were adepts in the art, Dolly 
having proven an apt pupil in all out-door 
fun. 


billy's mother. 


129 


In the new world, in which Jimmy was a 
little uncertain as to right of residence, the 
sun rose early in the day, and looked right 
in on the little white bed where he slept, 
inviting him to come out of doors where he 
could measure him, and help him to grow. 

Through another window, in the evening, 
the same good-natured sun bid him good- 
night with the kindest of winks. It is not 
strange that at the end of the five days 
Jimmy’s allegiance to the old world he had 
known was so greatly weakened that he 
was more than willing to become a perma- 
nent citizen of the new world, about which 
newly grown tendrils of affection began to 
twine. 

When the morning which had been ap- 
pointed for their departure came, Jimmy 
said : '' Please, papa, let me stay a little 
while ; I feel so strong here, and maybe I 
can get all well.” 

'' It will be very lonesome without you, 
my boy.” 

‘Wes, papa; but wouldn’t you rather be 
lonesome a little while now, and have me 
grow up big and strong like you, than to 
have me all the time there getting no 
better ? ’’ 


130 


billy’s mother. 


“ Billy’s mother has been cajoling my 
boy, don’t you think so, Mrs. Cravens ?” 

“ For his good, ye may depend.” 

“ Please, papa, may I stay ?” 

‘‘You are all against me, I see, and I may 
as well give in ; but, my boy, I will not go 
home to sleep until you come back. I will 
sleep at the station-house. Our room would 
be too lonesome without you.” 

“ Papa, if you feel so badly, I will go 
with you.” 

“ No ; these good people fancy they will 
make a man of you, so we must give them 
a try, now that the doctors say you can’t be 
helped.” 

The good-bye’s were bravely said, and 
the officer returned to his duty, his boy 
looking after him with pitying eyes ; then he 
too set to work with a will, his ambition 
being to get well. He walked about in the 
sunshine, delved in the mellow earth of the 
garden, was up with the birds, and to bed 
with them too. 

If additional evidence were needed that 
Billy Cochrane “had a long head,” that 
evidence was furnished by Jimmy Parks’ 
remaining at the farm. 


billy’s mother. 131 

Mr. Cochrane’s most persuasive eloquence 
had been used to secure the visit of the 
officer, and, indeed, he left the city in quite 
an uncertain frame of mind as to the suc- 
cess of his pleading, yet hoping that the 
prospect of seeing his old playmate, Dolly, 
would fire the heart of the patient, sufifer- 
ing boy, and set him to teasing so system- 
atically, that the father would yield the 
point, and take him for the visit. 

Once there, Dolly and her mamma, with 
the others sure to be found at '' the house,” 
would be able to keep the boy through the 
summer at least. 

The first part of his programme having 
been carried out successfully, Mr. Coch- 
rane rubbed his hands together gleefully, 
and smiled, while his eyes held a peculiar 
far-away look, which his wife had learned to 
know indicated the success of some plan 
which was intended for the pleasure or 
benefit of others. 

For the first few hours quite an effort 
was required on the part of the little lad, 
to prevent an attack of homesickness. 
Never before had he been separated from 
his father, except as duty exacted the 
father’s absence. 


132 


billy’s mother. 


The daily increasing sunshine was a de- 
light to Jimmy, and he wandered about at 
his will, sometimes essaying light tasks, 
sometimes resting in grandma’s room, listen- 
ing to her oft repeated rehearsal of his 
father’s kindness to her. Then out again to 
study the quaint shadows and varied de- 
vices of the sun’s rays ; he hoped the day 
when it might rain was afar off. “ The 
sunshine is so charming, I would be lonely 
without it,” he said. 

To his surprise, however, the first day of 
ceaseless, gently-falling. Spring rain, was a 
happy day. It was so widely different from 
a rainy day in the city ; when the slippery, 
mud-covered pavements endanger life and 
limb ; when the jargon of sounds becomes 
more terribly annoying than before, and 
the air — always fouled by useless odors and 
careless people, as well as by the unavoid- 
able consequence of many men and many 
works in so small a space — is rendered 
doubly so by the barometric conditions. 

“The air grows sweeter,” Jimmy said in 
surprise, looking out upon the misty veil 
which hung lovingly about the hills. A 
vision of the thirsty earth drinking from 


billy's mother. 


133 


the pure fountain opened to her came to 
the precocious boy, as he was lying by the 
open window, watching and thinking. 

Dolly was busy clattering among the 
kitchen things, making believe" that she 
was the mistress of the house ; scolding 
softly, because she could not play outdoors, 
but to Jimmy there came ''a great peace" 
out of the rain. 

Mrs. Cochrane found him lying there 
wistfully studying nature’s open book, with 
wonderful comprehension of the exquisite 
harmonies pervading all her works. 

Fearing that the little lad would be home- 
sick, the thoughtful lady had wrapped her- 
self in water-proof and rubbers, and ran 
in to comfort him ; but happily for him at 
least, he did not need comforting just then. 

''Dear Mrs. Cochrane,” he said, "you 
do not know how I dread rainy days for 
papa ; he comes home so tired and sad, 
and all spotted up with mud. I almost cry 
sometimes for him." 

" The rain in the country seems less 
gloomy to you then." 

" It is all beautiful, Mrs. Cochrane, rain 
"and sunshine ; the snow must look very 


134 


BILLY S MOTHER. 


fine out here. In the city it is dirty as 
soon as it falls, and it does make so much 
trouble, we dread to see it come.” 

'‘Would you like me to recite a little 
poem that was written on a rainy day ? ” 

“ If you will,” he answered, in surprise; 
and, holding the thin hand with a motherly 
tenderness, very pleasant alike to have and 
to give, Mrs. Cochrane’s winsome voice 
added new meaning to the words : 

A RAINY DAY. 

Rain ! Rain ! Rain ! 

The summer day is dark and chill, 

The song-birds notes have plaintive trill. 

And e’en the sea is wond’rous still 

Beneath the softly falling rain. 

Rain ! Rain ! Rain ! 

The summer skies are robed in grey, 

Without a rift for sunbeam play, 

A robe that trails o’er all the day 

A heavy fringe of falling rain. 

Rain ! Rain ! Rain ! 

’Til all the lea is buried deep, 

And all the rushes swaying weep. 

And all the rills to seaward sweep — 

Beneath the swiftly falling rain. 


BILLY S MOTHER. 


135 


Rain ! Rain ! Rain ! 

The night will be a gloomy night 
No vaulted blue with stars made bright, 

No gold fringed clouds, no purple light 
Relieves the grey of falling rain. 

Rain ! Rain ! Rain ! 

To-morrow when the sun shall rise, 

No clouds will veil the summer skies ; 

All nature then in fairest guise. 

Will bless the softly falling rain. 

That, like the rain without noise, the 
mist without fog horns, was a new expe- 
rience to Jimmy, and he quite enjoyed 
having the pretty lady bending over him, 
holding his hands in her own that were 
so soothing in their perfection. To have 
her repeat charming verses to him, in addi- 
tion to all the rest, made the hour a very 
glad one indeed. 

Mrs. Cravens turned away from her sew- 
ing-machine to listen, remarking at the 
close, '' That’s real good of you, Mrs. Coch- 
rane. I like it myself, I must say, and 
hope you’ll come ag’in.” 

Dolly, hearing unusual sounds in the liv- 
ing room, opened the intervening door and 
stood in it, smiling approval, through a tan- 


136 


billy’s mother. • 


gle of “ crazy curls,” as she often called 
them. Her nose was smeared from the 
dust cloth, her hands moist with dish water, 
and her apron would have scandalized any 
respectable kitchen maid of mature years. 

With the perversity belonging to woman- 
kind, from the cradle to the grave, Dolly 
gave a sisterly affection to Jimmy, and en- 
joyed seeing him “ made of ” by the neigh- 
bors, and especially did she approve of Mrs. 
Cochrane and “ Billy’s mother ” as asso- 
ciates for her playmate, over whom she her- 
self tyrannized persistently, unless guided 
very steadily by her judicious mother. 

Having finished the recital, Mrs. Coch- 
rane said : “ Clare will be looking for 
mamma, and it is almost tea time, so I must 
leave you ; but I will send you over another 
odd little poem about rain in the city.” 

“ Thank you, Mrs. Cochrane,” answered 
Jimmy, hesitatingly, and with the mental 
reservation, “ I’m afraid I won’t like it,” 
fearing that it would be too vivid a picture 
of the disagreeable side of rainy days. 

Mrs. Cochrane was true to her promise. 
Before the lamps were lighted Billy, Jr., 
came flying in, whipped the poem out of 


billy’s mother. 


137 


his pocket, saying, “ With mamma’s com- 
pliments. Read it out loud, Jim, and then 
I’ll beat you at dominoes.” Jimmy read 
well for a lad of ten summers, and being 
so slight and small in stature, the reading 
seemed all the more remarkable. 

Dolly listened while she undressed her 
decapitated doll, and prepared her for bed, 
adding at the close, “ That’s no great shakes 
of poetry, else you don’t know how to read 
it, Jim Parks.” 

Jimmy said, “ It is good, and it is true ; 
our room is two flights up, and right by the 
telegraph wires. I have seen the very 
same things myself, and thought about 
them, but couldn’t think them into poetry.” 

“’Taint likely ye could,” said Dolly, giv- 
ing her headless and blameless pet an 
extra shake by way of palliation for her own 
offence, in being so ungracious to the brave 
little lad. The dominoes were played with 
some spirit and varying success, but gave 
place to other methods of passing an in- 
door evening, until time for Billy, Jr., to go 
home. 

Then Jimmy re-read with keener satisfac- 
tion : 


billy’s mother. . 


138 


RAIN-DROPS. 

To the message wire clinging; 

See the tiny drops of rain ; 

Like to beads of Ayah’s stringing 
For the harem beauties” vain. 

Like to sheeny pearls they glisten 
In the lamp-light’s mellow glow. 

As the font drops when they christen 
Pretty babes, they trickle slow 

From the forms upholding slightly 
In the grey-dark upper air. 

Veiling the pane they trickle lightly, 
By the merchant’s gaudy ware. 

Some will cling, and idly wander 
O’er the slender vibrate thread ; 

Or they seem to wait and ponder 
E’er they fall to stony bed. 

When the slender hold is broken, 

And they’re flung to mother Earth, 

She accepts the storm king’s” token 
That her breast shall know no dearth. 

While summer’s heat is raging, 

While the cooling winds lie low — 

Ever for her fears assuaging, 

Pass the rain clouds, to and fro — 

While still the rush, and rumble. 

Of the city we may hear ; 

Or the wand’rer’s ready grumble 
Through the mist climbs to us here. 


billy’s mother. 


139 


Heed we not, but watch the trembling 
Of the pearl-strung, endless thread ; 
Watch the parting, and assembling; 

Watch the rain-drops as they wed. 
Smile to see them haste in greeting, 

As a lover to his tryst. 

But the Salaam ” means a fleeting, 
Downward through the lace-like mist. 
Restless still, they go on rushing 
Past the wanderer’s sodden feet. 

All the glitt’ring sheen out crushing 
In the flood that sweeps the street. 


CHAPTER IX. 


RANDMA COCHRANE was think, 
ing over her mercies one day, when 
a commotion on the lawn attracted 
her attention, and, looking out, she saw 
something which caused her heart to leap 
again with joy, and in another minute Miss 
Martin’s arms were around her neck, and 
they were both crying as women some- 
times do, with the very excess of joy. 

Mr. Cochrane’s face beamed as he ex- 
plained to his wife, “ I was afraid you could 
not keep the secret, you see ; and I knew 
there was room enough for her, if she did 
come unexpectedly to you.” 

Miss Martin was as graciously welcomed 
as though Mrs. Cochrane had been for years 
an intimate friend. With no home, and no 
friends, save those won by her good heart, 
the welcome was doubly precious to her ; 
her work at the hospital was wearying, and 
when Mr. Cochrane begged for a month’s 
vacation for her it was granted by the war- 
den, but with the injunction, “ Don’t keep 


billy’s mother. 141 

her altogether, we cannot spare her. No 
one can manage Ward 9 as well as Miss 
Martin can. We always put patients there 
who are a little inclined to insanity ; cranks, 
we call them, sometimes.” 

The promise of returning Miss Martin 
to her post was one that Mr. Cochrane 
would not give, as he said, “ It is not given 
to the wisest of us to forsee what may 
happen, but when she wants to come back 
I will not hinder her.” 

Grandma Cochrane thought Miss Martin 
was even prettier without the bit of a cap 
which was her insignia of office, for her 
hair was an exquisite shade of brown ; and 
now that she was off duty, she could ven- 
ture to crimp it a little. During the first 
day she was fully installed a member of the 
family, and engaged in a game of romps 
with “ the children,” which term included 
Dolly Cravens and Jimmy Parks. 

“ It ’pears like I had all my fren’s now,” 
said grandma, at the supper-table, on the 
day of Miss Martin’s arrival. 

“ I think I know of one more, mother,” 
said Mr. Cochrane, looking very roguishly 
at Miss Martin. 


142 


billy’s mother. 


“Yes, Billy, Doctor Wyckliffe ; but it 
ain’t noways likely he’ll come ; but I’d be 
main glad to see him.” 

“ I set a lodestone for him,mother.” 

“ A what, Billy ?” 

“ Oh ! just a little innocent trap. If it 
don’t bring him, I have not studied faces 
all these years with a right understanding 
of what eyes say, when the tongues say 
nothing.” 

“ I see now, Billy,” said grandma, as she 
chanced to catch a glimpse of Miss Mar- 
tin’s crimsoned cheeks. 

Every face was turned toward Mr. Coch- 
rane, with the query plainly written on it, 
“ What do you mean ?” 

After enjoying the perplexity for a few 
moments, that benign gentleman said : “ I 
saw how the land lay when I was at the 
hospital last March, so I thought it was no 
more than fair to steer the strangers into a 
safe port, as they would arrive there sooner 
with a good pilot. It is all right. Miss 
Martin, you need not look so much as 
though you were thinking of running away ; 
the fact is, I did not intend to let any of 
570U know that Doctor Wyckliffe was com- 


billy’s mother. 


143 


ing, but It slipped out when mother spoke 
about all her friends being here.” 

Miss Martin rather confusedly acknow- 
ledged — “I will be pleased to meet the 
doctor again, although I did not expect to 
do so.” 

“ I have invited him quite as much on 
my own account as that of any one else,” 
rejoined Mr. Cochrane, “ for I am free to 
confess he has won my highest esteem, and 
will win the respect of any man who has a 
just appreciation of honor associated with 
a tender heart.” 

“ Billy, you’re just the wonderfulest man 
thet ever wuz. I’m prouder’n prouder, 
thankfuler an’ thankfuler every day, fer 
ye to be my son.” 

“ Thank you, mother dear, for your good 
opinion. I shall always, try to deserve and 
keep It ; but now that the secret is out 
about the doctor coming, I will bid you 
both welcome. Miss Martin, to the freedom 
of my entire farm for your courting ; the 
horses are at your service if you want to 
ride on horseback.” 

“ But I never was on horseback in my 
life,” protested Miss Martin. 


144 billy’s mother. 

“Well, the carriage then — you can have 
that ; and if you take my advice, and con- 
clude to sail in company with the doctor, 
I will give you leave to have the wedding 
here, and I will give the silver myself, wife 
will fill your linen closet, mother will find 
your parlor knick-knacks, and the boys will 
make the music.” 

There was a chorus of joyous laughter 
as the very feasible plan was laid down by 
the head of the house ; even Miss Martin 
was affected by the contagious influence, 
and joined in the merriment in a slight 
degree. 

Grandma then entered protest, “ How- 
ever could I give ’em presents, Billy ?” 

“ Why, mother, what is your pocket-book 
for?” 

“ Pocket-book, Billy. I see one a layin’ 
on the mantel-piece, but I didn’t never open 
it. It wur too fine to make use on.” 

The boys thought that the queerest of 
all grandma’s queer notions, and they laugh- 
ed uproariously, their father joining with 
them ; and grandma looked from one to 
the other in amazement, as she said : “ I 
reely don’t see nothin’ to laugh at. Billy 


BILLY S MOTHER. 


145 


an’ ’Liz’beth jest treats me like I wuz the 
Queen o’ England, so they do, an’ I hedn’t 
no right to look fer money besides, hed I ?” 

Never mind, grandma,” said Billy, Jr., 
''you have not done anything to laugh 
at, but it seemed queer to us at first. If 
father ever leaves pocket-books on our 
mantel-pieces we will not need to be coaxed 
to open them.” 

" I guess I’ll open that un, but I couldn’t 
never kerry such a han’some thing in my 
pocket, never.” 

" If you carry it in your hand, you will 
be robbed, grandma,” suggested eager little 
Danny, and his echo, black-eyed Albert 
said, "You will, truly, grandma.” 

"’Taint noways likely, boys, thet anyone 
would rob me,” and grandma’s voice fal- 
tered ; for the instant she was back again 
in the old sad times, but recollected the 
fact that all was changed for her, and her 
eyes turned gratefully toward her son as he 
began speaking — 

" I am sorry you did not open your pock- 
et-book before this, mother, and use the 
contents. Every month there will be a 
sum of money put into it, for you to spend 


146 billy’s mother. 

as you please. If I do not give you 
enough, ask for more ; I want you to know 
the luxury of giving, mother.” 

“ Oh ! Billy ; what cur’us ways ye hev.” 

“Well, mother, it appears to me that 
every woman is entitled to a share of the 
family funds. Now, Elizabeth earns a great 
deal. She keeps my house comfortable, 
takes care of my wife, and keeps her in a 
sweet temper ; minds my boys, and my 
baby, and my mother ; entertains my guests, 
and makes me a happy man. How much 
money would I be obliged to pay for all 
that, do you think?” 

“ I couldn’t never tell, Billy.” 

“ No, mother, no more could I ; if it 
could be had for money, which is quite out 
of the question. She does all this because 
she loves us, but that don’t let me off, so I 
give her half of everything for her own, 
and pay the rest in loving care. You are a 
sunbeam in the house, and I must pay you 
for your share in the happiness I enjoy. 
It’s a great mistake to fancy that only the 
strangers who work for us earn moiiey; 
those who love us most earn most.” 

“Thet’s beautiful talk, Billy; isn’t it. Miss 
Martin?” 


St • # . » 




I 

7 






148 


billy’s mother. 


It is, indeed, but too many men think 
differently of their families, and act widely 
at variance from that, regarding only their 
own pleasure.” 

Is Doctor Wyckliffe coming to-day?” 
inquired Billy, Jr., who had formed a very 
large estimate of the capabilities of that 
gentleman for joining in the boyish sports, 
which he had not altogether outgrown, 
although there was a hint of dark down on 
cheeks and chin, about which shy jokes 
passed among his brothers and schoolmates ; 
rude teasing was high treason in that house- 
hold. 

I do not know, my son, whether he wdll 
arrive to-day or not. There was no time 
named either in my letter or his, but he 
will not tarry long I venture to say.” 

'' I fancy you are guessing a long way 
from the truth, Mr. Cochrane,” observed 
Miss Martin, with downcast eyes, '' Doctor 
Wyckliffe is a wealthy young aristocrat, and 
ambitious to attain prominence in his profes- 
sion. He would not be likely to seek a 
bride outside of his own circle of friends, 
and as for me, I am quite as much wedded 
to my profession as he is to his.” 


billy’s mother. 


149 


That is all very high sounding and 
plausible, Miss Martin, but eyes tell truer 
tales than words sometimes, and sailors 
when they come to be landsmen keep a 
lookout from habit you see. A very small 
sail catches the eye of an experienced ob- 
server, when other folks see nothing un- 
usual at all. Doctor Wyckliffe will marry 
the woman he thinks will make him a good 
wife, provided she is lady-like and can be 
his equal in society ; as for being wedded 
to anything but a man, that is all nonsense. 
A woman forgets that, as soon as the man 
comes along who suits her fancy ; although 
sometimes they make a poor choice, and it 
would have been better for them to stick 
to the first business in hand.” 

'' Now, Billy, ain’t ye a leetle too hard on 
us wimmen folks ? ” 

''No, mother; there is nothing to tack 
about for, but I will slack up now and let 
you and wife have a good chat with Miss 
Martin, while I look after matters out of 
doors.” And he arose from the table, leav- 
ing the others who had sat at meat with 
him, to seek the veranda. Miss Martin cap- 
turing Clare, and cuddling her closely, said. 


billy’s mother. 


150 

“You little fairy, how did you happen to 
know of this blessed restful home, and find 
your way here, instead of to our great 
noisy city.” 

“She was a lucky baby, wasn’t she?” 
queried dear little Albert, leaning confiding- 
ly against Miss Martin’s knee. 

“ Of course she was, although lucky is 
hardly the right word, you dear little 
brother. Clare is a blessed baby to have 
such a lovely, lovely home.” 

“ It’s the peacefulest home this side 
Heaven, Miss Martin, I’m fain to believe,” 
said grandma. 

“It seems so strange to see everybody 
taking life so easy. I never feel as though 
I had a perfect right to time enough 
to eat properly when I am in New York, 
and here you sit at the table, and chat, and 
laugh as though there was nothing more 
to be done in all the world.” 

“ My husband says that the children will 
remember the dinner chats better than any- 
thing else, if by any means our home was 
broken up ; he insists on leisure at the 
dinner table, and gives the boys the privi- 
lege of joining in the talk.” 


billy’s mother. 


I5I 

“ It is delightful, restful ; oh ! Mrs. Coch- 
rane, it is a glimpse of paradise to a busy, 
tired woman, like me.” Then, somehow, 
all fell into a silence that was as restful as 
the mirth and the chatting had been. Miss 
Martin’s chair kept up a low, even rhythm, 
as she rocked Clare to sleep. Grandma’s 
head leaned easily back in her chair, and 
from happy thoughts she had gone smiling 
into dreamland for just “ forty winks of 
elixir of youth,” as Billy, Jr., drolly put the 
habit. Mrs. Cochrane was fashioning a 
little wrap for Clare — of fleecy wool — and 
watching the changing views of the everlast- 
ing hills, the glory of the trees, and the sway- 
ing grains almost ready for the reapers, as 
that side of the earth — comforted by the 
day’s sunshine — turned away into the twi- 
light and the softer rays of the moon and 
stars. The summer in its rapid advance, 
with its luxurious leafage, lengthening twigs, 
and sweet-scented blossoms, was a source 
of ceaseless pleasure and intelligent obser- 
vation to the household. To Miss Martin 
and Jennie, as well as to Grandma Coch- 
rane, much of the changefulness of nature’s 
summer face was altogether new. Jennie 


152 


billy’s mother. 


was proving a very close student of nature, 
never tiring of seeking out wierd places 
and curious plants. 

Mr. Cochrane rejoined the group, fol- 
lowed by the older boys, Albert having fol- 
lowed the example of Clare and grandma 
and gone off to the Land of Nod, using 
Ponto’s curly-coated side as a pillow, and 
Ponto, good-natured fellow that he was, 
made no objection. Scarcely had Mr. 
Cochrane occupied his easy, rustic chair, 
than he started up with an exclamation that 
roused grandma, Albert and Ponto, as with 
one motive. 

“ Well, well ; here comes Doctor Wyck- 
liffe. He has taken us by surprise after all, 
ah ! mother,” he continued, as they two 
passed down the lawn to meet him ; “there’s 
a man whose present worth proves that a 
good boy makes a better man all through, 
than the one who sows wild oats, and leaves 
other people to reap them before he re- 
forms.” 

They met and welcomed their guest, and 
conducted him to the veranda, where he 
was most cordially received by all the other 
members of the household. 


153 


billy’s mother. 





154 


billy’s mother. 


Swiftly the days flew by, and- it would 
have been a difficult matter to determine 
which was the greater favorite with the 
troop of youngsters, Miss Martin with her 
capital stories, her merry laugh, and ready 
wit , or the doctor, whose innate skill 
trickled in healing touches from his slender, 
kindly hands. Jennie was improving under 
his care; Jimmy Parks had imbibed new 
courage from the doctor’s kindly words ; 
all the lame, and halt, and sick of the com- 
munity were singing his praises. He had 
amputated, remodeled, and replaced the 
nether limbs of Dolly Craven's second-hand 
doll ; had successfully set the broken leg 
of one of Ponto’s neighbors. On depar- 
ture he had persuaded Billy, Jr., to fit him- 
self for the noblest of the professions — the 
healing of the sick ; and he had impressed 
upon the young student’s mind the import- 
ance of thorough preparation. Billy lis- 
tened well, and laid away the precepts care- 
fully. 

In the following autumn he was to enter 
college, and all collegiate matters interested 
him. The doctor related many incidents of 
college life, but the boys best loved to hear 


billy’s mother. 


155 


him sing, “ Set him down boys,” a col- 
lege song, which ran thus to a merry tune : 

Round the hall the whisper flies — 

“ Set him down, boys, set him down.’^ 

Never mind the angry eyes ; 

Or professor’s deep’ning frown. 

Chorus. 

Set him down, boys ; oh ! set him down. 

The bit of fun, is quickly done. 

So set him down, though he may frown ; 

Set him down, boys ; oh ! set him down. 

There’s a new and verdant chap — 

Set him down, boys, set him down. 

All at once, our heels will tap, 

’Tis the way we do in town. 

Chorus. 

See the lad, with sultan airs — 

Set him down, boys, set him down. 

At medic girls how he stares. 

Oh ! the silly, gauky clown. 

Chorus. 

Time your heels now 'round the floor,, 

Set him down, boys, set him down. 

If he winces, give him more. 

Airs and graces won’t go down. 

Chorus. 


billy’s mother. 


156 

A few hints, and all the boys, .with Dolly 
Cravens, could imitate the college prank of 
tapping the heels on the floor, just as a late 
comer sat down. The fun of the perform- 
ance reaching the climax when, all uncon- 
scious of the enacted chorus, Mr. Coch- 
rane came on to the back porch where the 
group sat, and dropped into the inviting 
depths of an immense rustic chair. One 
stare of surprise, and he was laughing as 
heartily as any of those who had, without 
premeditation, carried out the bit of fun. 

Miss Martin was urged to tell one more 
story ; she averred that she could not think 
of any more, her repertoire was quite ex- 
hausted ; but she would read them a poem 
received that day from a friend, to whom 
she had described the wheat field, of which 
only the stubble was left that evening. 
The day had been a typical harvest day, 
and the last load of golden grain had borne 
also a more precious freight of little ones, 
as it rolled away to the great barn. Eager- 
ly all listened, for Miss Martin was a capi- 
tal reader for the family circle ; and then 
the poem was about their own home and 
“The Poppies in the Wheat.” 


billy's mother. 


157 


THE POPPIES IN THE WHEAT. 

In the sultry August ‘‘ nooning,” 

While the reapers are at rest,” 

And the birds have hushed their crooning 
By the fledgling crowded nest ; 

I am idly outward gazing 

From my window in the shade, 

Where the sun is fiercely blazing, 

O’er each swaying quiv’ring blade. 

And I see a scarlet glimmer 

’Mid the yellow heads of wheat — 

Scarlet poppies ’mid the shimmer. 

Of the golden tinted wheat. 

All the kine have sought the shading 
Of the hillside’s leafy nooks ; 

Or ’til even are patient wading. 

In the crystal murm’ring brooks. 

Near to earth the birds are flying. 

If, perchance their wings are spread. 

All the garden flowers are sighing. 

For the dew that eve will shed. 

But the poppies pertly glimmer 
By the roadside in the wheat. 

Royal robes are they that shimmer 
’Mid the shelt’ring rustling wheat. 

AVhen the mowers, on the morrow 
With their glitt’ring scythes appear, 

I shall feel a pang of sorrow, 

At the clamor drawing near, 


158 billy’s mother. 

With the wheat in winrows lying* 

To be gathered into sheaves. 

Will the poppies, too, be dying ? 

Fading bloom and withered leaves. 

Poppies strewn by unseen sower, 

'Mong the golden grains of wheat, 

End their mission when the mower 
Comes to gather in his wheat. 

It was a fitting close of a delightful visit. 
Miss Martin could not be persuaded to 
break her engagement with the warden. 
Her leave of absence had been twice ex- 
tended, at the urgent request of her host. 
Every day had been an idyl to her, even 
when Doctor Wyckliffe was elsewhere for a 
few days ; then she and grandma could ex- 
change praises of him, and await his return 
with mutual interest. 

But the parting was at last inevitable, 
and on the morrow they would breakfast 
together, and take their several ways out 
of the sunshine of that charming home 
into the shadows of a busy city life. The 
harmony would remain, with a few minor 
notes of regret for the missing faces. The 
one bearing away a song of joy in her 
heart of hearts which would lighten her 


billy’s mother. 


159 


duties — a song without words, merrily run- 
ning on unheard, even though one should 
lay an ear on lips or breast, but sung sweet- 
ly nevertheless. The other was panoplied 
in the surest armor a man can wear — the 
love of a pure, noble-hearted Christian lady, 
who faithfully did what her hands found to 
do. Day by day the armor had been per- 
fected by unseen workmen, until the wearer 
felt that he was ready for any battle, and 
sure of victory, let it come in what form it 
might. 


CHAPTER X. 


^lOCTOR WYCKLIFFE had been a 
S|U| faithful wooer, and Miss Martin had 
finally made the concession to his 
plea. “ If your mother approves your 
choice after due consideration, and some 
acquaintance with me, I will become your 
fiancee ; but I cannot consent now, fearing 
that your mother would be rendered un- 
happy through me.” 

Looking at the charming girl with the 
partiality of a lover. Doctor Wyckliffe 
could not see any possible objection that 
his mother could raise ; but Grandma Coch- 
rane coincided with Miss Martin’s judg- 
ment, adding encouragingly, “ I make no 
doubt that Laura will be jest ez welcome 
to yer mother ez ’Liz’beth is to me, but 
then mothers like to be talked to an’ coun- 
seled with. It’s main hard on a mother 
when her boy begins to talk most to some 
one else ; an’ she’ll bear it easier like, if she 
hez a little bit of say in the changin’ ’roun.” 

“ Billy’s mother always has the correct 


billy's mother. l6l 

idea, and expresses herself remarkably 
clearly,” said Miss Martin to the doctor, as 
they walked .together on the lawn. 

'' A wonderful woman she is, and I am 
convinced by her last argument. I would 
not willingly cause my mother to shed one 
tear of sorrow or regret, but I am sure she 
will love you.” 

Possibly. I certainly hope she will ; 
but it is better for all of us that we do not 
act in haste. You are her all ; I can wait. 
I have never known the joy of being loved 
since I can remember, except the affection 
of schoolmates and teachers, who soon 
passed out of my life ; and of patients who 
no doubt forgot me. Billy’s mother was 
the first person to really and faithfully 
love me, and call out my own affection.” 

You were a little to blame for that ; you 
were so reserved that no one could see how 
truly sweet and lovely you were.” 

Then Billy’s mother must have thawed 
me out, for since she came in my way, I 
have many lovers, boys, and babies, girls and 
women ; even Mr. Cochrane loves me like a 
father.” 

And I ; have you forgotten to count 
me ?” 


i 62 


BILLY S MOTHER. 


For answer she looked at him steadfastly 
fora moment and said softly, “Your love 
outshines all the rest.” 

“ And wins in return more than they, I 
hope,” he answered. 

Billy’s mother’s advice was followed, and 
Mrs. Wyckliffe wrote that she would meet 
her son in New York within a short time. 
The sequel of her visit proved that Doctor 
Wyckliffe had not mistaken his mother’s 
appreciation of the genuine loveliness of a 
brave, helpful woman ; who, unfortunately, 
robbed by death of woman’s rightful place, 
her father’s house and guardianship, and her 
mother’s tender care, earns her living where 
she can be truly useful ; but who can yet 
gracefully accept the higher trust and nobler 
sphere of wifehood when love comes knock- 
ing at her heart, and bids her make for him 
an altar within. 

Mrs. Wyckliffe returned to her home 
bearing with her the promise that Miss Mar- 
tin would become her son’s bride in the ap- 
proaching autumn. A wordy contest had 
been waged with Billy Cochrane, but he 
came off victor, and carried off the fiancee 
in triumph to his own home for the wed- 


billy’s mother. 


163 

ding preparations, bidding Mrs. Wyckliffe 
not to encroach on his grounds, as “ Miss 
Martin is my proteg6, and I shall pay the 
bills for her wedding finery.” 

The intervening weeks were busy ones. 
Miss Martin grew daily more beautiful as 
the lines of care were erased from her face 
by the inimitable artist — Love. It was 
quite useless for her to protest against any 
plan of Mr. Cochrane’s, and his fond 
mother found occasion many times to say, 
“Now, jest you let my Billy hev his own 
way ; he’s sure to be in the right,” while he 
would say, “ My dear girl, do not bother 
your head about these matters, let the dress- 
makers have their say. And do you deepen 
the roses in your cheeks by living out of 
doors with my boys, and the baby. Re- 
member, after the doctor claims you, we will 
not see you again for two years, while you 
are away in Europe, so let the little folks 
enjoy your society. You will have care 
enough after marriage my dear. Ask my 
wife if it is not a big job for a little woman 
to take care of a man and keep on the right 
side of him in all his moods.” 

The children, joining with their father, 


164 


billy’s mother. 


would coax her away to ramble in the woods, 
tell them stories, and sing to them. She 
won Jennie’s heart to the full, and many a 
memorable hour was passed by them in 
sweet sisterly converse, which widened their 
visions of life and broadened their ideas of 
duty. Of those hours Jennie has since 
said, “ What a pity women do not seek to 
know each other better, cultivating friend- 
ships instead of envyings and idle gossip.” 

There had been kindred events in their 
lives : the early orphanage, poverty, and 
dearth of love. The bravery, purity, and 
faithful womanliness of each were the out- 
growth of pride, ability and will inherited 
by an excellent parentage, of which they 
had but meagre knowledge. Jennie fre- 
quently sang to a melody of her own im- 
provisation, the words : 

LORETTE. 

The clouds are breaking now, Lorette, 

The clouds that hung so low, 

And held above our heads the threat 
Of ever deepening woe. 

TheyTe breaking fast, my own Lorette, 

The blue is shining now ; 

The coming brightness, my Lorette, 
Foreshadows on thy brow. 


billy’s mother. 


165 


The clouds are breaking now, Lorette, 

They’re breaking in the West, 

We’ll see the sun once more, Lorette, 

And learn that clouds were best. 

They were to us, my own Lorette, 

Of love the surest test. 

The pain that we have known, Lorette, 

Will make more sweet, the rest. 

The sun is shining now, Lorette, 

The sun that hid so long ; 

Is gilding all our path, Lorette, 

Our joy breaks forth in song. 

Ah 1 yes ; my own, my fair Lorette, 

Your love so sorely tried. 

Has stood the test, you love me yet 
As when you were my bride. 

Grandma Cochrane would follow the 
s®und of the sweet voice until she found 
Jennie; if, indeed, the conference and im- 
promptu concert were not held in her own 
room, as was frequently the case. 

‘'Jennies quite given to poetry and 
song,” ventured Billy, Jr., with a merry 
twinkle in his eyes. “ She will be leaving 
you and setting up a blue stocking factory, 
grandma.” 

“ She hez blue stockin’s now, lots on 
’em,” protested grandma, rather indignantly, 


billy’s mother. 


1 66 

“’an taint no ways likely Jennie ’ll leave 
me, an’ ef she does she aint never goin’ in- 
to no fact’ry.” 

“ I did not intend to tease you, grandma, 
apologized the young gentleman. “ Blue 
stockings is a nickname for women who 
write stories, and poetry, make books, you 
know, and compose music.” 

“ Oh, I didn’t hear that afore,” and the 
peaceful smile returned to the dear old 
face. But Billy kept on hinting about a 
new song, and music on the sly, until his 
mother said, “You have teased Jennie 
quite enough, my son.” 

“ Really, mamma. I’m not guying her. I 
was reading in the parlor ; it came on to 
twilight and I sat there in the dark. Jennie 
did not see me, and she played a sweet 
melody to some very touching words ; I 
could not hear them all, and if she will play 
and sing it for us I know we will all like it. 
Please Jennie, won’t you ?” 

“ Thet’s a dear,” joined in grandma. I 
don’t know fine music, nor ef it’s the fash- 
ion, but I’ve ez good ears az any on ye fer 
sweet sounds.” 

“ I will play it for you, grandma ; the rest 


billy's mother. 


167 


may listen,” said Jennie, kissing the smiling 
face on either cheek, and then wheeling the 
easy chair closer to the piano, she sat down 
and played the simple accompaniment to 
the words : 


SUNSHINE. 

One gleam of sunshine into thy life. 

An hour of restful freedom from strife. 

I pray, oh! my friend, this day may bring 
One day of gladness, the heart shall know 
One gleam of sunshine, it longs for so, 

And thy dead faith, into life shall spring. 

One gleam of sunshine into thy life. 

Herald of promise with joy so rife. 

In clasp of a hand, and words that thrill. 
This longed-for gleam will make thee glad : 

Oh! friend so lonely, friend who art so sad. 

The sunshine of peace awaits thee still. 

One gleam of sunshine, veiling the past — 
Darkness dispeling, leaving at last 

Glorious light, and a matchless day. 

Thou hast won the sun of skies grown clear, 

So brave wert thou, when the skies were drear. 

With clouds now driven, far from thy way. 

A gleam of sunshine, brightest on earth ; 

The joy of a soul in its new birth. 

Freed from a bondage, weary and long. 


billy’s mother. 


i68 

Awake now thy smiles, too long have they slept ; 

And lift up thine eyes, that long have wept, 

And tune thy voice to praise, and song. 

There were exclamations of surprise and 
delight which were gratifying to the tal- 
ented yet modest young girl. 

Billy’s boys were not wholly angelic ; they 
enjoyed getting Dolly Cravens into a pas- 
sion, declaring she was “ a regular little hor- 
net’s nest,” and indeed she was a match for 
all of them. 

They were ever chivalrous to Jimmy 
Parks, as he could not retaliate, and it was 
not particularly funny to tease Jennie, as 
she was a timid little soul, made no answer, 
and very possibly slipped away to her room 
for a quiet cry. It was useless to try their 
shafts of wit on Miss Martin, as she could 
foil the keenest, and turn it back again. 

Grandma’s bell tinkled several times one 
day before Jennie answered it with a pair of 
downcast tell-tale eyes, carefully turned 
away from the face she loved best on earth. 

“Now, dearie,” began grandma, there’s 
no use a hidin’ of things from me ; hez the 
boys been at it ag’in?” 

“Jennie answered, “ It is very foolish of 


billy’s mother. 


169 


me to cry, but I did not know any one 
knew what I had done, and it was cruel to 
twit me with it.” 

What hev they done ?” 

'' I found this paper in one of my slippers 
this morning.” 

'' Read it to me.” 

And she read : 

THE POETESS. 

The poetess sits with her inky fingers 

Clutching her tangled, bright auburn hair, 

But the rhyme she seeks provokingly lingers 
’Til she reels on the verge of despair. 

Her slippers fall down at the heels, and holely 
Are the hose upon which we might gaze. 

And think of the fate of the lone and lowly, 

And the gifted one’s curious ways. 

At last she catches a grand inspiration. 

For there on the old ink-spattered wall 
A vision appears; in sheer desperation 
She grasps her pen, and captures it all. 

To know full soon another dejection 
Most cruel, and thoughtless, and hard 
Are the words of relentless rejection, 

That came with the editor’s card. 

“ Did ye send a piece away an’ hev it 
come back ?” 


170 ■, 


billy’s mother. 


“ I did, grandma, and thought no one 
knew about it but me.” 

Grandma complacently folded the paper 
and put it in her pocket, with what intent 
Jennie did not divine until, at the supper ta- 
ble, it was passed over to the master of the 
house with the request, “ Will you read that 
out loud, Billy?” There were little hints of 
suppressed smiles about the corners of his 
mouth as he read on to the end; then turn- 
ing toward the boys he inquired, “What does 
this mean ?” “ Danny told me to,” blurted 

out Albert. “ Billy said it was a good fit 
and would tease her,” said Danny. “ But I did 
not tell you to copy it off and give it to 
her,” protested Billy. 

“ Who do you refer to ?” inquired their 
father. 

“ Why, Jennie.” 

“ J ennie writ a story or something and sent 
it to a paper and it come back, and she 
didn’t want any one to know it, and how 
they found it out she can’t tell,” said 
grandma. 

“Jennie,” said Billy, Jr., rising to his feet, 
“ on my honor I did not know of that. • I 
would not do a real mean thing ; will you 
forgive me for my share in it ?” 


billy’s mother. 


I7I 


Jennie answered, '' I will, Billy, and I am 
quite ashamed of feeling badly about it.” 

'' Forgive me, too, Jennie,” said Danny; 
and Albert, ignoring table etiquette, slipped 
down from his chair, rushed around to Jen- 
nie, hugged her heartily, and kissed her on 
either cheek, leaving the prints of a gravy 
stained mouth, at which they all laughed 
merrily ; and the stray scribbling from a 
waste basket, which had by some strange 
channel found its way into the hands of 
mischievous boys, was robbed of harmful 
tendencies. The little ripple of vexation 
passed out of sight, and their thoughts 
turned again to their friend. Doctor Wyck- 
liffe, who was busy making the necessary 
arrangements for a two years’ sojourn in 
Europe, where he could increase his store 
of medical knowledge, after which he ex- 
pected to establish a practice in his native 
town. 

On the day appointed for the wedding he 
arrived at Mr. Cochrane’s accompanied by 
his mother and a young clergyman who had 
been his college chum, to whom belonged 
t^e honor of officiating in the ceremony by 
which society gained a lovely and ever-to- 


1 72 


BILLY S MOTHER. 


be- valued member. Mrs. Wyckliffe became 
even happier than she had been, in the af- 
fection given her by her daughter. Mr. 
Cochrane discharged his debt to the doctor 
as he gave away the bride in his own par- 
lor, and afterwards presented the silver 
promised in the early summer. 

Seldom, indeed, is the sacred ceremony 
of marriage performed in the midst of such 
perfect harmony, and as a benediction on 
two hearts so entirely wedded. 

There was first a brief trip to the moun- 
tains to enjoy together the wonderful tints 
with which October glorifies the foliage. A 
few days with pencil, and brush, and sketch 
book, and the happy pair sailed away over 
the wide sea to strange lands, where study 
and work were to be daily intermingled 
with their pleasure. 


CHAPTER XI. 


’HE two years of absence intended 
had almost passed, and preparations 
were already being made for the re- 
ception of the home-coming doctor and his 
wife, as well as a little German-born Ameri- 
can laddie of whom great things were an- 
ticipated, judging from his photograph and 
Grandma Wyckliffe’s letters, as well as those 
of his mamma. 

The newly-made grandma thought she 
could not wait to see her new relative on 
American soil, and she had braved the ter- 
rors of the sea to look on his bonny face as 
soon as she learned of his arrival. 

They were all coming over together, and 
quite naturally their first stopping place, af- 
ter passing the Custom House, was to be 
at Mr. Cochrane’s, where, from morning to 
night, plans for their pleasure were discussed, 
and guesses as to the precocity and beauty 
of the baby were hazarded. The photo- 
graph was continually on exhibition. It 
was studied through a glass, and the linea- 







billy's mother. 


175 


ments of the parents carefully traced. The 
poem sent him by a friend of Doctor Wyck- 
liffe's when the news of the added joy 
reached her, was frequently re-read, as 
Grandma Wyckliffe had forwarded a copy of 
it with the foot-note : '' See how the honors 
of greatness are already foreshadowed for 
him.” It was musical and quaint, a treasure 
to Jennie, who was frequently overheard 
singing softly toi^herself : 

FROM AN UNKNOWN LAND. 

From an unknown land, 

With a dimpled hand; 

And a wondering eye 
And a plaintive cry, 

A little one came. 

And he won our love — 

This waif from above, 

With innocent mien 
And a soul so clean — 

He put us to shame. 

And we wonder now, 

If the fair white brow 
Will ever o’ercast, 

Ehe his life is past. 

With sorrow or crime ? 

Will an angel band. 

From an unknown land 


176 


billy’s mother. 


Be ever anear 
Our little one dear, 

To guard his earth time ? 

Oh ! little one fair, 

What a need of care 
Hath followed thee here, 

From thine eyes so clear, 

Dark shadows to keep ; 

On thine heart so pure, 

But the “ precepts sure ” 

To willing indite; 

To guide thee aright — 

Our love may not sleep. 

A burden — ah ! no ; 

We call it not so. 

A guerdon and joy, 

Is the fair-faced boy 

Who claimeth our care. 

In keeping him pure. 

Our feet are more sure 
In the path of life. 

At the end, dear wife — 

. Of Heaven, more share. 

Mary Cravens was still faithfully making 
and mending, and as faithfully tending to 
the little crippled boy, who, at every visit 
from his father, begged to stay until next 
time, a request that was sure to be granted. 


billy's mother. 


177 


The visits of his father grew more frequent 
and were no longer confined to his yearly 
vacation ; but often made when but two or 
three hours covered the time he could re- 
main with his boy ; the hours in the train 
being utilized for sleeping. 

'' It begins to look as though there was 
only one way to get hold of your boy again, 
officer,’' observed Mr. Cochrane, as they 
drove over to the depot one September 
afternoon, when all the family were on the 
qtii vive for the arrival of the doctor’s 
family. 

'' I don’t know about that,” was the quiet 
non-committal answer. 

‘'Your boy clearly will not leave Mary if 
he can manage to stay with her. You want 
him with you ; the best thing for you to do 
is to turn farmer, and remain with the boy 
and the best friend he has found since his 
mother died.” 

Just then the train came up to the sta- 
tion. The policeman stepped on board 
with only a pleasant “ Good-bye,” and Mr. 
Cochrane was not prepared to say whether 
his advice had met with the approval of the 
officer or not ; but he soliloquized on the 


1 78 billy’s mother. 

way home ; “ It would be just the thing for 
both children — one needs a father, the^other 
needs a mother ; they love each other dear- 
ly. Mary loves one about as well as the 
other ; she has mourned long enough for 
her sailor boy — there is not a shadow of 
doubt about his death ; and the dear knows 
she has had rough seas enough to be en- 
titled to a bit of easy sailing now. 

“ I hope they will see the fitness of it, and 
be neighbors of mine. He has a little 
money saved up, and can buy the old Mil- 
lers place. If they were only settled in a 
home of their own, so far as I know, every 
one who showed a kindness to my mother 
in her dark days, would be in part re- 
warded.” 

The choking sensation in the good man’s 
throat, which always came with any remem- 
brance of the evil days in his mother’s life, 
prevented farther words ; and Dick, who 
was accustomed always to hear the sound 
of his master’s voice either singing some 
favorite sea song, or running over his plans 
to himself, when he had no companion to 
chat with, must have wondered at the sud- 
den silence , but he did not wonder long. 


billy's mother. 


179 


for his master just then made a discovery. 
Sitting by the roadside, with a small bundle 
lying carelessly at her feet, was a forlorn 
looking little waif, probably eleven years 
old — if her size was the basis of estimate — 
but twenty, taking the careworn face as an 
indication of years. 

She was shaking the dust out of a shoe 
much the worse for wear, when Dick spied 
her, and knowing that his master s invariable 
habit was to give everybody '' a lift," he 
promptly halted, and awaited farther orders. 

The child did not apparently look up, 
although there was no doubt in Mr. Coch- 
rane’s mind that she was fully cognizant of 
the entire proceeding. A voice as cheery 
as the song of birds greeted her with the 
words : Well, sis, if you’re going my way. 
I’ll give you a lift." Without deigning to 
reply, the girl gave the inverted shoe an- 
other thump on a convenient stone, and 
leisurely proceeded to replace it on her 
foot, pulling her ragged stocking together 
at the heel as she did so. 

Mr. Cochrane watched her deliberate 
movements with considerable amusement, 
anticipating from her face quite as pert a 
reply to his kindly offer as he received. 


i8o billy’s mother. 

“ Don’t know ef yer will er not. Don’t 
know which way yer goin’ ter, I don’t. 

“ Where do you wish to go ? ” 

“To Miss Cockern’s house,” she answer- 
ed, more softly, lifting her bundle and ap- 
proaching the buggy. 

“ I am going there myself, so jump in my 
lass ; Dick thinks it is supper time.” 

“ Mebbe ef he hedn’t supper mor’n once 
a week, he’d be stiddier,” said the girl ; “an’ 
mebbe ye ain’t a goin’ to the Miss Cockern’s 
I wants. ” 

“ Which one do you want ? ” 

“ She’s a awful old woman, an’ corned 
from New York, to live with a boy; his 
name’s Billy.” 

“ All right ; that is the one I am going 
to see. Jump in now, sis, and you will see 
her in about twenty minutes.” 

Tacitly accepting the kindly invitation, 
the girl climbed into the buggy wearily, and 
sat down warily, for it was her first expe- 
rience in buggy riding. Finding the seat 
firm, and the distance to terra firma not so 
great as at first it appeared to be, she set- 
tled down by Mr. Cochrane’s side with a 
gesture of confidence, accompanied by a 
long drawn sigh. 


billy’s mother. l8l 

“ Did you know Mrs. Cochrane in New 
York,” inquired Mr. Cochrane, without mak- 
ing himself known. 

“ Some,” was the sententious reply. 

“ Have you walked out here to see her?” 

“ I had ter. I hadn’t no money.” 

“When did you leave New York ? ” 

“ Monday,” 

“ Monday ! and have walked here in five 
days. It is one hundred miles, the nearest 
way one can take. No wonder your shoes 
are so worn, poor child.” 

“ I rode some in the market carts first 
day, an’ onct on a hand car, that was awful 
funny, two men were a liftin’ of a handle 
up an’ down to make it go, and they wuz a 
naggin’ at me all the time, fear I’d fall off. 
Bet yer life I wouldn’t, an’ I didn’t.” 

“ How did you live, you brave little 
thing?” 

“ I slept by the fences on the ground, an’ 
begged something to eat. at the houses. 
One ugly ole woman she set a big dog onter 
me, she did ; see where my dress is all tored. 
I’ll take it outen her, I will, ef I ever see 
her again, see ef I don’t.” 

Mr. Cochrane thought the dress was not 


i 82 


billy’s mother. 


materially changed by the dog’s prowess, 
as it had unquestionably passed the period 
of possible injury long before the encoun- 
ter of its spunky little owner with the cur, 
that doubtless respected his mistress’s opin- 
ion of tramps, large and small, whether 
clad in trowsers or petticoats. 

“ How did you learn where your friend’s 
home was ? ” inquired Mr. Cochrane, while 
busily engaged in the study of the face of 
the girl-woman. 

“ W’y, I lived onct in the street where 
she lived, I did ; an’ she was awful, oh ! 
awful poor ; an’ she wuz a wanderin’ an’ 
wanderin’, all the time a huntin’ fer her boy 
Billy. An’ onct I saw some kids knock her 
down, I did ; she wuz so flimsy they could 
knock her over like a top, with one little 
bit of a shove, so,” and the girl illustrated 
the strength required with her own hand 
on Mr. Cochrane’s herculean shoulders — 
but continued her story. “ That time she 
fell in a snow pile. I tuk her outen the 
snow, an’ shook her clothes, an’ tole her to 
eat somethin’ outen my baskit ; she didn’t, 
but she said, ‘ My Billy’ll mek a leddy out- 
en yez for that.’ Nex’ day she wuz tuk ter 


billy’s mother. 183 

the hospital in a amb’lance, she wuz. I 
foun’ thet out, I did, an went to see her, an’ 
oh ! dear, she wuz gone. Billy he hed 
come an’ tuk her away, coz I sed my rosa- 
ry fer ’em, I did ; an’ I pestered ole Bob, 
what Stan’s by the hospital gate, to let me 
in, but he wouldn’t never tell me where 
Billy tuk her to, nor he wouldn’t never let 
me in ; but he allers sed, ‘ Get outen this, 
ye dirty brat.’ 

“ Then I got hurted on some boards in a 
lumber-yard, an’ wuz tuk to thet hospital 
myself, so I wuz, an’ I wuz glader’in any- 
thin’ to be hurted, coz I heerd them tellin’ 
as how Miss Martin corned outen New 
York ter see Miss Cockern, as wuz Billy’s 
mother, an’ how she got married til a fine 
doctor man as wuz awful rich, an’ Billy’s 
mother she give ’em lots o’ things, she did. 
I listened, I did, sly like, an’ I didn’t say 
nothin’. And I foun’ out Billy’s mother 
she wuz a livin’ et Harper’s Meaders. An’ 
I got well, I did ; an’ I made faces at ole 
Bob, I did ; awful faces, like this, see — ” 
and the child nudged her kindly companion, 
as she illustrated her ability at facial con- 
tortion. 


1 84 


billy’s mother. 


Mr. Cochrane laughed heartily, and ask- 
ed, “What did Bob do then?” 

“ I said, ‘ ole cross-patch, I foun’ out where 
Biljy’s mother is a livin’, an I’m a goin’ 
there to be a leddy, I be ’ ; and he laffed, he 
did, to kill hisself. 

“ I tole a man thet looked rich an’ kin’ 
like, thet my granny wuz a livin’ to Har- 
per’s Headers, an’ he tole me where to 
go, and give me some money, he did. I 
didn’t beg fer it, nether. Then I byed me 
a pair of shoes, an’ a apern, an’ a hat, an’ 
this ere ribbin fer my neck ; ain’t it perty ? ” 
The small damsel ceased her narrative to 
stroke the ends of the cheap, blue tie, so 
incongruously contrasting with her ragged 
faded dress, and soiled apron, once white. 

Mr. Cochrane smiled softly, and mentally 
agreed with the ancient preacher as to the 
vanity extant in this world, thinking too,that 
that peculiar characteristic of the human 
family has not decreased through contin- 
uous usage, but has been handed down to 
the present day, intact in quantity and 
probably unchanged in quality. 

Without noting the smile on the face of 
her guide, the child continued her story 


BILLY S MOTHER. 


185 

after a minute, and evidently self satisfy- 
ing admiration of her unusual adornment ; 
“ Then I tied up this ere bundle an’ skipped 
rite out, I did. It wuz awful hard work, it 
wuz, sometimes, a walkin’ up hills, an’ down 
hills. Oh ! dear ; but I med up my min’, 
I did, to just Stan’ it, an’ I did stan’ it ; an’ 
now, mister, ain’t we mos’ there ? ” 

“ Almost there, little girl.” 

“ Yer minits is long ones, ’pears ter me.” 

Dick turned in at an open gate, and 
trotted up to the open barn door, as though 
glad to return. 

“Well, ef thet haint funny, beats the 
Dutch, thet duz. I should think thet ere 
hoss was a livin’ here ; he’s mighty sassy,” 
observed the girl. 

“You are right, this is his home; and 
there is your friend on the porch.” 

To Mr. Cochrane’s surprise, the girl 
screamed with disappointment, exclaiming, 
“ ’Taint her at all ; oh ! dear, ’taint her ! ” 

Mr. Cochrane, taking her grimy hand in 
his, said, “Come with me and see. Mrs. 
Cochrane is well now, and does not look 
the same as she did when you knew her.” 

“ Oh ! no ; I can’t never speak to her 


billy’s mother. 


186 

agin ; ef Billy’s ez fine ez her they’ll never 
leave me stay, so they won’t. I’m goin’ 
back to New York, I am,” and the sobs and 
shrieks increased in vehemence. 

By that time grandma and Clare were 
hastening to the barn ; they had wondered 
who the unexpected guest might be, and 
were awaiting the introduction which Mr. 
Cochrane would give in his own felicitous 
manner, when Mrs. Cochrane discovered 
that the child was greatly excited, and 
weeping. 

Saying “ Come, Clare,” she hastened to 
meet and comfort the distressed one, Clare 
clinging wonderingly to her grandma’s hand, 
and quite as eager as she was to assist in 
assuaging such apparent grief. 

“ Who is it, Billy ? ” was his mother’s 
first inquiry. 

‘•See if you can recognize her, mother?” 
The sobs ceased, and the child looked up 
in surprise. 

“ Oh ! Billy,” was the answer, “ she’s that 
poor beggin’ child that helped me the day 
I was hurt, before I found you.” 

“Take her in, mother; that is enough 
for me to know,” was the earnest reply. 


BILLY S MOTHER. 


187 


“ Be you — her — boy Billy, she wuz a-look- 
in’ fer so long ? ” the girl asked eagerly, and 
eyeing him, with mingled awe and astonish- 
ment depicted on the haggard, unchildlike 
face. 

“Yes, my child, I am her boy, Billy ; go 
in with my mother, and she will soon 
make you more comfortable.” 

“An’ kin I stay here, Billy — mister?” 

“I will go into New York in a few days, 
and straighten this matter out ; then I can 
tell better about the staying,” answered 
Mr. Cochrane. 

With an agile spring, the child caught 
Mr. Cochrane’s hands, and exclaimed, “ Oh ! 
don’t ; oh ! don’t ; granny’ll kill me, she will. 
I tuk her bres’pin, an’ veil, an’ let a Jew 
pedler hev ’em fer money to come out here 
with, I did. She’ll kill me ef she see’s me, 
see will ; she will. Oh ! oh ! oh !” 

“ Hush, my child, do not be frightened. 
She shall not touch you, I will see to that. 
Go right along now, that is a good girl,” 
said Mr. Cochrane, coaxingly, as he re- 
leased himself from the little clinging hands. 

Mrs. Cochrane added her plea, “Yes, 
come with me.” And darling little Clare 


billy’s mother. 


i88 

put out her velvet hand, saying sweetly, 
“ Turn, my tild, an’ Jane’ll give oo nice bed 
an’ milk.” 

A laugh, almost as boisterous as the ex- 
pressions of grief had been, greeted the 
cunning invitation, and the little one was 
caught up to the dusty, tear-stained face, 
and kissed as never before, with the eager- 
ness of a starving soul, starving for love, 
and love’s altar as well, whereon she might 
lay her own small oblation. 

By that time they were in the house, and 
Jane was setting out a bountiful repast on 
the kitchen table, while Jennie was bathing 
the face and hands of the little wanderer, 
who began to realize her weariness now 
that her haven was reached. . 

A few hours later, combed, and cleanly 
dressed, in some of Jennie’s clothes, which, 
although “ a world too wide for her,” made 
her look more presentable, the little waif 
sat at grandma’s feet, too happy for utter- 
ance ; too much astonished for tears ; too 
thoroughly bewildered to realize the change 
in her fortune. Her eyes closed, and she 
fell asleep with her head pillowed on “ Billy’s 
mother’s ” lap ; the boys home from school 


billy’s mother. 


189 


tip-toed in and peeped at her. “ The brave 
little midget,” said Danny. “ She’s my big 
sister,” asserted Albert, doubling his little 
fat fists defiantly, as Billy, Jr., laughed at 
the idea, ending the laugh with the words, 
“ What a beautiful child. Oh ! mamma, 
she looks like a picture.” 

A shout of laughter on the lawn startled 
her, and looking up at the sweet face of her 
old-time friend, she said, “ It can’t never be 
Billy’s mother.” 

“Yes, my dear, I am indeed; but you 
can see now what a happy home, an’ good 
clothes, an’ plenty of good food, can do for 
people,” answered grandma. 

The change in Mrs. Cochrane had been 
wonderfully rapid, the association with 
her charming daughter-in-law, brilliant 
grandsons, and the cultured guests who 
frequented the hospitable mansion, had 
wrought a great change in the mode of 
expression. Naturally, her manners were 
graceful, and her heart was pure gold ; as 
it is the artist within, who beautifies our 
“ house of clay,” and refines the lineaments, 
it was not strange that Mrs. Cochrane was 
a marvelously beautiful old lady, for her 
thoughts were of the purest type. 


CHAPTER XII. 



FEW days subsequent to the arrival 


of this unexpected claimant on his 


bounty, Mr. Cochrane went to New 
York, and while there, investigated Lillian’s 
story, which proved to be in the main a true 


one. 


She was an orphan, totally without kin- 
dred or history, beyond the fact that both 
her parents had died suddenly among stran- 
gers, leaving their infant daughter unpro- 
tected, and unprovided for. She had been 
informally adopted as a “grandchild” by 
an old Irish woman, who had gradually fal- 
len into habits of inebriety and beggary, 
during Lillian’s residence with her. 

The woman was deeply incensed at the 
ingratitude of the child, shown first by the 
desertion, and last by the theft of an old 
lace veil and antiquated brooch, the sole re- 
maining links binding the wretched crea- 
ture to her early life. Lillian had described 
the purchaser so well that he was readily 
found ; the two purloined articles were re- 


billy’s mother. 


I9I 

claimed, and returned to their lawful owner, 
with whom satisfactory arrangements were 
entered into by which Lillian Barret was 
released from all obligations to her quondam 
grandmother, becoming a permanent mem- 
ber of the Cochrane household. 

The return of her benefactor was most 
eagerly awaited by Lillian ; who, while she 
believed Mr. Cochrane to be quite equal to 
any emergency, and “ master of the situa- 
tion ” at all times, yet had a lingering doubt 
as to the desirability in the opinion of the 
family of her being “ left to stay.” That 
doubt was slyly utilized by the boys as a 
good opening for a warfare of teasing. 
Jennie no longer cared for their nonsense; 
and Lillian was a new target for their wit. 
Although she was in general valiant in self- 
defence, and ready with such keen repartee 
in any verbal combat, that the boys did not 
always realize their anticipated fun. 

That the wordy sparring was not pleasant 
to Mr. Cochrane the child well knew, hence 
her anxiety as the hour for his return drew 
nigh. She had been on her good behavior 
all day, thoughtfully assisting one and an- 
other, and endeavoring, with rapid progress 


192 


billy’s mother. 


toward success, to make herself necessary 
to the family. With Clare in her arms, as 
a reason good and sufficient for so doing, 
Lillian met Mr. Cochrane at the gate, and 
his face passed a very close scrutiny while he 
was greeting Clare, until he said, “ Take Lil- 
lian to mamma, pet ; and say this is Lillian’s 
home now, mamma.” 

“ Is it really, for ever’n ever, true as yer 
liv’ an’ breathe ? ” inquired Lillian, breath- 
lessly, 

“Yes, my child, this is your home, so 
long as you need it ; but not forever and 
ever. We must go to Heaven to find a 
home that will endure for ever.” 

Lillian clasped Clare closer, and ran into 
the house, first seeking grandma’s room, 
for there was the shrine to which was 
brought many first fruits, of all kinds, and 
for various reasons. 

“ I knew he would keep you, child,” was 
grandma’s reply to Lillian’s words. 

“ I’se dlad too,” lisped Clare, patting Lil- 
lian’s cheeks merrily, and then releasing 
herself from the slender arms, she trotted 
off to find mamma, and rehearse papa’s 
message. 


billy’s mother. 


193 


'‘A reorganization meeting,” as Billy, Jr., 
termed it, was immediately called, in the 
Sanctum Sanqtorum of the Cochrane domi- 
cile. President Mamma, Vice-President 
Grandma, Counselor Jennie, Vice ditto, 
Mary. Subject, Lillian. Question for de- 
cision, ''What room shall be hers, what 
shall be her duties, and what shall we make 
for her first.” 

That meeting, after having a harmonious 
session, adjourned for the purpose of imme- 
diately executing the plans therein devised. 
Mr. Cochrane found an opportunity for a 
chat with his mother, saying, as he settled 
himself in a great arm-chair by the open 
window, through which autumn odors were 
stealing, with broad hints of falling nuts and 
decaying leaves, W ell, mother, I have 
rescued another of your friends from want, 
at least for the present, but if there are 
many more to be provided for, I shall be 
obliged to build a factory for their employ- 
ment.” 

" Billy, I am so glad that poor child is 
here. Ef her own dear mother can look 
out of Heaven and see her, she’ll sing a 
better song then she has yet since goin’ 


194 


billy’s mother. 


there. It makes a woman’s heart stand still 
with pain, to think of a lonely, motherless 
girl in that great city.” ' 

“ Or a man’s either, mother, dear ; for no 
woman who has kept herself pure, can know 
so well as a man can, how rough, the rough 
side of life can be to a woman. I was won- 
dering how many more girls.you have bound 
me over to help, by promising that I would 
make ladies of them.” 

“ Billy, are you afraid of the burden ?” 

“ No, mother, but you had a far better 
opinion of me than I ever deserved, when 
you fancied I would be so ready to assist 
others. The bitter schooling through which 
I passed in my search for you, learning 
when at last I found you, of the kindnesses 
bestowed by one suffering human being upon 
another, who is just as needy in some other 
of our numerous needs, has opened up my 
heart, and, God helping me, mother, my life 
shall be a useful one.” 

“ Oh, Billy, His help is ready whenever 
folks take the right hold of it. It appears 
to me you have, and I guess you have 
helped all of my friends, leastwise I don’t 
think of anybody else just now,” answered 


billy's mother. 195 

grandma, as gravely as though she regretted 
the fact, 

Lillian had taken possession of her room, 
and was investigating and rearranging the 
contents according to her own ideas ; a priv- 
ilege granted by Mrs. Cochrane, who was a 
firm believer in the policy of permitting 
children to individualize their own proper- 
ties. Mary Cravens had departed from the 
conclave with a bundle of materials to be 
made up for Lillian, Jennie being deputized 
to take the child under her instruction, and 
feeling that her task would be no light one, 
had secluded herself and ''put on her think- 
ing cap.” 

Mrs. Cochrane re-entered grandma's room 
with an anxious air, and suggested, " I fear 
that Lillie will be a great trial to us." 

"Well, my dear," answered Mr. Coch- 
rane, " I should have a little anxiety about 
it myself if she were not so loving and so 
willing ; she is bright, quick-witted and ob- 
servant ; if we are patient she will repay us 
for our trouble and care.’' 

"I admit that she improves in manner 
with every hour here. There is something 
very winsome about her^ with all her rude- 
ness." 


196 billy’s mother. 

'' She has not yet learned the art of re- 
pression ; her caresses are spontaneous, her 
kindness sincere, and her ambitions have an 
upward tendency quite surprising, when one 
remembers her recent surroundings.” 

'' She is anxious to learn, and tries to 
please all the family, but she seems at times 
bewildered.” 

'' That’s in no wise strange, ’Liz’beth. 
Think how long it took me to understand 
that it was not a cruel joke my bein’ here. 
’Liz’beth, you never went one day a-hunger- 
in’ for kind words and lovin’ looks, did 
ye ?” 

'' No, mother, never an hour.” 

''You cannot feel how bewilder’n’ it is to 
hev kin’ words and smiles on every side, az 
Vv^ell az plenty to eat; an’ clean, tidy things 
to wear when ye hev wanted them an’ 
prayed for them until yer heart wuz sore, 
an’ yer faith a-waverin’. Ef rich folks could 
see poor folks inside they would spend their 
money different, an’ there would be more 
prayers an’ more thanksgiving then now, 
an’ more ov the work thet’s done would be 
proper paid fur, and prompt, too. It’s too 
menny times the truth thet rich folks in the 


BILLY S MOTHER. 


197 


City keep them thet works a-waiting fur 
money when the need ov it is sharp an' 
vexin’." 

Danny had come in, and was leaning on 
grandma's shoulder, not quite comprehend- 
ing her words, but aware that she was pro- 
testing against some injustice, and he added, 
“ It is so queer, all of grandma's friends are 
so poor and lonely." 

Not at all queer, my son," said the gen- 
tle mother. '' Grandma was out of the way 
of any other class of people. Those who 
have friends, and means, too, purposely 
avoid meeting the forlorn ones because 
they dread the shock to their feelings. Oc- 
casionally there are brave, fearless men and 
women like Doctor Wyckliffe and his wife, 
who seek out the suffering and sorrowful 
people to befriend them." 

That is a difficult thing to do, too,'’ ob- 
served Mr. Cochrane, '' for the really deserv- 
ing poor shrink from notice, and withhold 
their confidence from those who would 
gladly help them." 

Where is Lillian ?" inquired Danny, as 
no one picked up the dropped thread of the 
conversation. 


198 


billy’s mother. 


“ Reveling- in the luxury of a room all her 
o-wn,” Mrs. Cochrane answered, laughing. 

“ What will she have to do, mamma,” the 
boy asked, knowing that there were no idle 
hands in that model home. 

“Yes, wife,” joined in Mr. Cochrane, 
“ which of your departments will you assign 
to her? ” 

“ Probably the best course will be to send 
her to school, as soon as her clothing is 
made, and, after a year or so, have Mary 
teach her to sew, that she may take her 
place, for I am thinking Mary will accept 
another before many months.” 

“ Oh, ho ; I thought I was the first one 
to discover that probability ; but leave a 
woman alone for seeing through affairs of 
that kind ; she needs no help,” said Mr. 
Cochrane. 

Grandma, who had also been taking un- 
observed notes, added, “ I hope th’ officer 
will not be in a very great hurry, now thet 
ye must eddicate a girl to take Mary’s 
place.” 

“ And one so entirely ignorant of all kinds 
of work ” — 

“ Except walking and begging,” interrupt- 


billy’s mother. 


199 


ed Billy, Jr., as he entered the room in time 
to hear his father’s last remark. 

“ But she isn’t ignorant,” asserted little 
Albert. 

“ How do you know, my son,” kindly in- 
quired his mother. 

“ Mamma, she tells us the butifullest sto- 
ries. Oh, my ; and she makes my bed so I 
can’t wake up.” 

“ That is a good test, my boy,” Mr. Coch- 
rane said, laughing ; but how has she 
learned, and yet begged a living for herself 
and the woman she lived with.” 

“ I know,” answered Danny ; “ she’s told 
me all about it. She wanted to be a great, 
fine lady like mamma, and live with grand- 
ma ; so she went to such nice schools in New 
York, where rich ladies teach children to 
sweep and make beds, and sing, and, oh, 
everything. It’s beautiful to hear Lillian tell 
it ; she can talk like a lady, too, Lillian can. 
Truly, papa, just like mamma,” said Danny, 
seeing a rather incredulous smile on his 
father’s face. 

“ Why does she talk and act so awkwardly 
then ?” questioned Billy, Jr. 

“Tos,” answered Albert, “all the boys 


200 


BILLY S MOTHER. 


and girls do, and they’d laugh if she, if 
she — '' ''Talked well like mamma,'’ said 
Danny, completing the difficult sentence for 
his little brother. 

"Yes." 

" She has certainly held to her original 
purpose of becoming a lady quite closely 
and systematically, and she deserves suc- 
cess," were Mr. Cochrane’s next words, very 
sedately spoken. 

" Lillian says her prayers with beads, 
papa, and she went to church every morning 
to say her beads for you to come to grand- 
ma," and Danny looked as though he scarcely 
knew which he most admired- — the patient 
little Christian, untaught, yet with such 
strong faith, or his own good father, who 
was helping her into the path she had hoped 
to find. 

Billy, Jr., was laughing heartily. Not 
say her beads, Danny ; the beads are only 
to count the number of the prayers by." 

" She better count ’em, than not to say 
enny prayers at all, hadn’t she mamma?" 

Prayers are only acceptable when sin- 
cere, my boy, and, if sincere, the form of 
saying them does not matter," was the judi- 
cious answer of the wise mother. 


billy’s mother. 


201 


'' To think of the courage of that poor 
child, starting out to walk a hundred miles 
jver strange ways,” said grandma. 

'' But, then, grandma, she did not know 
the difference between one hundred miles 
and ten miles,” said Billy, Jr. 

Even if thet iz so, she wuz brave and 
lovin’ to try to fin’ me out,” asserted grand- 
ma. 

'' It was not so much to find you, I fancy, 
grandma, as to claim the fulfillment of the 
promise that she should be made a leddy of 
some day,” and all, including herself, joined 
in the laugh at grandma’s expense. 

'' The words may come true yet, mother, 
so far as education and care can make them 
true,” encouragingly from Mr. Cochrane. 

She reads quite well,” said Billy, Jr. ''I 
was surprised to hear her. She had Danny’s 
' Fairy Tales’ out by the brook yesterday, 
reading to him, and Ah, and Clare. She 
did not know that I was near.” 

Now, papa, now,” exclaimed Danny, 
clapping his hands, “ do you see I was right. 
Lillian knows lots ; she can write, too, and 
she can say beautiful verses.” 

'‘Wonders never cease, is an old saying. 


202 


billy's mother. 


and we have found one in Lillian, evidently," 
Mr. Cochrance said, while his wife added. 
It seems so strange that she should keep 
her accomplishments so thoroughly hidden 
from all but the little ones." 

''Jennie did that, too, asserted Danny, in 
defense of his favorite. 

" If the child should prove to be a genius, 
Billy, it will be a glad thought that you 
helped her to develop her talents." 

" Possibly so, my dear ; but these women 
who prove to be geniuses have to walk over 
red hot ploughshares of trouble to bring it 
out, as they can't very well be put into a 
silversmith's crucible and come out whole ; 
the preparation for work is made by sorrow, 
and very few of them fit into a home like 
you do, for instance, making life worth liv- 
ing, to all under the roof with you." 

" Then you do not consider mamma a 
genius ?” queried Billy, Jr. 

"Yes, my boy, the finest kind — she has a 
genius seldom equaled for being a good 
wife and mother." 

" An' daughter, too, Billy." 

"Yes, mother;" before which shower of 
deserved compliments Billy's wife fled, meet- 


billy's mother. 


203 


ing Clare, who was looking for '' mamma," 
though scarcely out of her afternoon’s nap. 
Lillian called to her over the stair -rail, 
''Come here, Clare, and see my lovely 
room." 

"Caught napping," was Mrs. Cochrane’s 
mental comment, as she answered for Clare. 
" We will both come." 

Once within the room, Mrs.* Cochrane 
said to Lillian, " How is it that you con- 
tinue to speak as you generally do, when 
you can speak prettily, as you just now 
did ? " 

" It’s just this way ma’am, if you’re rag- 
ged and dirty, and beggin’, fine words won’t 
go with it. If you’re dressed to kill in 
silks, and shinin’ with dimons, why you see 
common talk don’t suit the silk, so it don’t. 
In my school there was a sweet little lady, 
who told me lots, she did. Well, she got 
sick, and I went to her house, and I was 
there every day sayin’ over things to keep 
her quiet, things that she told me in school. 
I looked out how all the fine ladies spoke, 
and lifted their dresses around, and smiled 
at folks. Well, when I was done beggin’. 
and granny had her beer, and laid snorin’, 


204 


BILLY S MOTHER. 


I said over the words they said, I did. I 
tied granny’s Sunday skirt on for a trail, 
and switched it out of my way, so ; I bow- 
ed to myself in granny’s old glass that was 
broke all in bits, but staid together yet, it 
did ; but it didn’t look like this one. No, 
I guess not,” and Lillian turned admiringly 
to look again into the clear mirror surmount- 
ing the bureau, which she had decorated 
most profusely with autumn leaves. 

“ Will you endeavor, my dear, to speak 
prettily all the time, now that begging is 
quite done with ? ” inquired Mrs. Cochrane. 

“ I will for true. I’m not ragged any more, 
nor dirty, and the lady ways will look bet- 
ter, so they will.” Mrs. Cochrane was in- 
terested in the account Danny had given 
of Lillian’s ability to entertain her listeners, 
but it was some days before any of the 
adult members of the family were afforded 
an opportunity to hear her recite anything 
beyond popular jingling rhymes. 

“ The seer and yellow leaf ” had fallen, 
and with it the harvest of nuts. Lillian 
was enthusiastic over the nutting parties; 
the long walks early in the morning, while 
the hoar frost lay yet on lea and hillside. 


bilxy’s mother. 


205 


were delightful to her, but when the pop- 
corn was husked, and the shining ears were 
housed in the kitchen attic, she was “ wild 
er than ever.” When she had learned under 
Billy, Jr.’s, tutelage, howto handle the pop- 
per so as to turn out a heap of show-white 
toothsome dainties, she sang, and danced, 
eat and laughed, with rapid transition, until 
all at once a song was recalled, and repeat- 
ed as well, to the boys, who quickly caught 
the spirit of it, and insisted that mamma 
and papa should come into grandma’s room 
(where the “ first pop of the season ’’was 
being held), and hear for themselves. 

To their surprise, Lillian consented, and 
a more delighted audience could not be 
imagined. She improvised her own tune 
as well as the pantominic gestures which 
accompanied the words. 

“ Where did you learn it, Lill,” from 
Billy, Jr. 

“ A lady taught me, and she said I would 
make a great actress some day, if I kept 
on trying.” 

“ Which, of course, you will do ?” inquir- 
ingly from Mr. Cochrane.” 

“Yes, as long as ever I live. I’ll keep 
trying. I promised her.” 


206 


BILLY'S MOTftER. 


“Who?” 

“ My teacher that died.” 

“ Did she want you to act ? ” 

“Not exactly ; but read for charity concerts 
and fairs, you know ; she gave me that song 
to see what I could do, and she said when I 
was ready to go before folks she would want 
to come and see me, and she would write to 
the lady who wrote this, and have some- 
thing new, made up for me to read ; but she 
died last winter. When I am all ready to 
read things in concerts, I’ll write myself, I 
will, and ask the lady to make me up a story 
for my own.” 

“ Meanwhile, you can practice on the one 
you have,” said Billy, J r., as they gathered up 
the fragments of their feast, bid grandma 
good night, and carried off Puss, and Dido, 
and Clare — a sort of triumphal procession, 
each one bearing away some of the notes of 
Lillian’s pleasing, if not classic, melody to 

POPPING CORN. 

Through the window wide, and low, 

Falls the firelight’s ruddy glow 
On a field of spotless snow. 

Like the stars this winter night, 

Beam eyes that well the scene adorn. 


BILLY S MOTHER. 


207 


Where the farmer reads in his easy-chair, 
While the mother looks on with happy air ; 
And Rover and Kitty have each a share 
In the ever new delight — 

Of little ones popping corn. 

Then another scene we seek — 

Where a father’s glowing cheek 
Is reddened the while, so meek 
He kneels where the embers glow. 

And eager young voices warn, 

If they think the grains will open too slow ; 
Or the feath’ry leaflets begin to show ; 

And the popper fills with the mimic snow. 

Oh ! it is such fun you know, 

When papa is popping corn. 

There’s a giggling girlish laugh, 

And a sound of wordy chaff ; 

But you hear it only half — 

Like the sound of far-off chimes, 

A spinster answers with scorn. 

When the meek, low voice of a country beau 
So timidly says, I would like to know 
Where all the ladies have chosen to go ? ” 
Well, sir, they’re having good times ; 

The ladies are popping corn.” 

Oh ! that scornful look, and sniff ; 

But prove the maiden’s in a miff, 

With mem’ry she’s had a tiff, 

That’s sure as sure can be. 


208 


billy's mother. 


Long before those girls were born. 

She was doubtless the Jill of some fond Jack, 
And of innocent fun she had no lack ; 

Other old heads, then, bore kindly the rack 
That came of boisterous glee — 

When she was popping corn. 

The snow through the crevice crawls, 

Where another shadow falls 
On lower shabbier walls. 

Anear a fair young girl. 

Whose face no artist would scorn. 

There’s a trace of recent tears on her cheeks. 

As patiently for the embers she seeks. 

Deep are her sighs, though no wording she speaks, 
Of thoughts that are in a merciless whirl. 

She’s silently popping corn. 

For the Christmas Eve is here. 

And naught of Christmas cheer ; 

Or tempting dainties appear. 

The children going to bed. 

Seemed to her sadly forlorn. 

This sister, mother, bread-winner, and all — 
Heard the sad words from little lips fall, 

‘‘We’ll have no Christmas — no nothing at all.” 
“The will for the deed,” she said. 

She only can pop some corn. 

Now climbing toward the sky. 

O’er ricketty stairs so high. 

In a garret we may spy, 

Where spider webs thickly swing. 


BILLY S MOTHER. 


209 


A crone in the early morn, 

With her old wrinkled hands tending it well, 
Close watching the grains as they bursting swell. 
By mental arithmetic she can tell 
. How many pennies hwill bring — 

For market, she’s popping corn. 

And here a ruddy-faced boy, 

With eyes that sparkle with joy. 

And stove that seems but a toy. 

Is calling loudly and oft, 

‘’ Come and buy my nice popped corn.’' 
Awhile he busily shells, and then stops 
To shake the corn o’er the coals till it hops ; 
And watches it close to see that it pops. 

Still shouting loudly and oft, 

‘‘Here’s where we’re a-popping corn.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 


HE interest in the probable union of 
two broken families into one thrifty 
and happy one, as well as that cen- 
tering in Lillian, suddenly became matters 
of minor importance ; the welcome news 
being received that Doctor Wyckliffe and 
his family were already on their voyage. 

The preparations due so great an event 
were at once entered upon. By dint of a 
question here, and another there, Lillian 
quickly comprehended the loving attitude 
of the family toward the expected guests, 
and quite as quickly entered into the spirit 
of the occasion. 

“ She is a veritable sprite, I believe,” said 
Mrs. Cochrane, in reference to the quick- 
witted, swift-footed child. 

“ She’s imperence itself, biled down,” 
answered cook. 

“ She’s the jolliest girl ever was,” said 
the boys. 

“ An’ the lovin’est little thing I ever see,” 
said grandma. 



billy's mother. 


2II 


Baby Clare had grown finely, and as to 
character, was '' a chip off the same block" 
with Billy Cochrane, rather quiet, but gen- 
erous to a fault. Her heart was so wide it 
held only kindly thoughts of all God's crea- 
tures ; '' a spunky little piece," at times, 
resenting any infringements on her plans 
with a lusty outcry, that was sure to bring 
grandma to the rescue. Of pet names for 
her there was no end. Papa's dear little 
blue-bird," she was sometimes in the soft 
blue slip she liked best ; Papa's pure, white 
dove," when so arrayed ; Papa's sharp 
little look-out," when she sat on the gar- 
den wall at the end of the green-house, 
looking down the road to catch the first 
possible glimpse of his return. 

Her parting injunction frequently was, 
'' Bing me lots o' 'ittle chillens, papa." 
Dolly had proven such a good playmate, 
Jimmy such a fine aide-de-camp on all occa- 
sions, that the dear little woman fancied all 
children would be just as desirable acqui- 
sitions. 

There was a vague idea in her small head 
that to live in the city was to be an exile 
from all good and lovely things ; so her 


2 I 2 


billy’s mother. 



billy’s mother. 


213 


maternal wings were early spread for the 
hovering of baby waifs from that terrible 
place, New Work.” 

To Lillian, Clare had ''taken” with an 
unmistakable liking which quite delighted 
the heart of the hitherto loveless child. The 
affection was fully returned. "She would 
carry her until her arms were numb, if the 
little one asked it,” said grandma. 

" She may teach her rough ways,” sug- 
gested cook. 

" I won’t,” retorted Lillian, who overheard 
the remark. "’Sides that, ye couldn’t make 
a reel born baby like Clare to be rough — so 
now,” and the indignant little damsel march- 
ed away with her charge, to the more con- 
genial region of grandma’s room. 

The difficulty of coaxing Clare to call her 
papa by another name than that of " Billy,” 
was increased after Lillian’s advent, as she 
was frequently guilty of the commission of 
the forbidden act. The name had been so 
long associated with "Billy’s rnother” in 
the poor girl’s dreams of coming bliss, that 
there was a sort of fascination about it. 

The tone in which his mother always pro- 
nounced the name, was calculated to im- 


214 


BILLY S MOTHER. 


press anyone, and more especially a suscep- 
tible child, with the marvelous charm of it. 
It was not at all strange that Clare should 
frequently counterfeit the call ; knowing as 
she did that her papa would respond more 
promptly to that name, than to any other, 
the temptation to claim his attention by it 
was an ever-present one. 

“ Fibs ” innumerable Lillian told, before 
she realized the wrong to herself and others, 
and honestly tried “ not to do it, no more.” 
She possessed an innate sense of honor, 
quite remarkable in one so neglected, and 
that needed but a little loving care to start 
it into a thrifty growth, as the few years 
intervening since that time have fully 
proven. 

The visions of coming greatness which 
cheered Lillian in her loveless days, and 
possibly established her feet outside the 
broad path wherein so many motherless 
girls find their way, were never so brilliant 
as the realization. 

Acting on Doctor Wyckliffe’s advice, 
Lillian was sent to a very excellent private 
school ; her acquiescence in the plan was 
characteristic. “ Billy Cochrane, ye may 


BILLY S MOTHER. 


215 


send me where ye wants to ; I’m fer learn- 
in’, I am ; an’ bet yer life I’ll learn faster’n 
eny boy they got there, I will.” 

*****«••» 

It is Thanksgiving evening, four years 
later. The doctor is once more at the 
home of his old friends — his wife and chil- 
dren are with him. Billy, Jr., is home 
from college for a few days. Lillian, grown 
to be a lovely young woman, comes, as she 
supposes, quite unexpectedly. 

“ I could not help it. I did so want to 
see you all,” she says, “ and Miss Gaines 
said I might come just for to-day.” 

“You are always welcome, child,” says 
grandma, a sentiment in which all join, and 
then she rushes away to see the inmates of 
the old house “ just a minute.” Jimmy is a 
fine strong lad now, thanks to his mother’s 
care, and Doctor Wyckliffe’s skill. Dolly 
is nearly as tall as her mamma, and her 
papa, the quondam officer, since turned 
“Jersey farmer,” is as proud of her as can 
well be, but not more so than she deserves. 

After the bountiful dinner has been fully 
enjoyed, they gather into the parlor. Clar<» 


2i6 


billy’s mother. 


takes possession of her papa’s lap, and nes- 
tles her head against his whiskers. The 
boys gather about Lillian admiringly, Jen- 
nie goes to the piano, Mrs. Wyckliffe kneels 
on a rug where her baby is investigating 
the shaggy coat of a fine dog. They are 
all perfectly at home, 

“ Well, this is nice,” says Mr. Cochrane, 
“ to have all my girls here together.” 

“ All your girls, Billy ?” from grandma. 

“Yes, mother; Laura, Jennie, Lillian, 
and Midget, they are all mine, you know.” 

“ And mine too, Billy dear, my daughters, 
given to me in my old age, to widen out my 
heart with their sweet ways and their love.” 

“ Rather a mixed relationship, don’t you 
think?” from Billy, Jr., to Lillian. 

“ The mixing does not bother me, I am 
so glad, that is, that I care nothing for 
how it came about.” 

“ If only all girls who are bereft as we 
were could be led by such still waters as we 
know now,” said Jennie, with a sigh. 

“ Is it not a strange coincidence that all 
three of you were motherless from baby- 
hood, fatherless from your early years, and 
then should come to be as sisters under my 
roof,” concluded Mr. Cochrane, 


billy’s mother. 


217 


‘‘ There is to be an entertainment in the 
church parlors this evening ; how many are 
going?” inquires Mrs. Cochrane. 

‘‘All of us,” says Clare, clapping her 
hands, “ in the big sleigh.” 

'' But I only have my merino dress,” pro- 
tests Lillian. '' I wanted a good romp with 
the children to-night, and so I wore this.” 

'' Come up to your room, and let us see 
what we can do,” says Mrs. Cochrane. A 
queer smile passes over several of the faces 
present. Jennie does not see it, however, 
as she goes, singing, up the stairs, to find 
her room in a glory of illumination, and on 
her bed a pretty dress of cream white silk. 

'‘Mamma Cochrane!” she says, "what 
does this mean ?” 

Well, my dear, we knew you were com- 
ing ; this is for you to wear this evening, 
and we expect to hear you recite something 
very fine. The entertainment is a chari- 
table one, so I am sure you will be inter- 
ested.” 

I am so surprised ; my wits are gone 
wool-gathering, I believe.” 

" You can soon collect them sufficiently to 
dress. My large cloak will cover you all 


2i8 


billy's mother. 


up. Be quick, now, that's a dear, good 
girl," and Mrs. Cochrane hastens away. 

The entertainment is rather informal, 
without programmes, or reserved seats. 
The intervals between recitations and music 
filled in by merry chat and social greetings. 

Master Albert, who had been greatly in* 
terested in The White Elephant contro- 
versy, contributes with very elaborate man- 
ners this apostrophe to ''Toung Taloung:" 

‘‘TOUNG TALOUNG.” 

Thou mystery, from far Siam, 

Hast thou come hither to abide ? 

Hast bid’n adieu to fair Meinam, 

Beyond the wide sea’s surging tide ? 

What king doth hide his life-freed soul 
Within thy pond’rous, swaying frame ? 

How found he thee his restful goal ? 

What once said they who named his name ? 

Does he these princely honors share ? 

Looks he on us from out thine eyes ? 

Hears he the softly murmured pray’r 

Of dark-browed priests in dazzling guise ? 

From out thy haunts ’neath elding trees 
Led he thy feet to captor’s snare ? 

Heard he the joyous devotees 

Thy glory in their songs declare ? 


billy’s mother. 


219 


How smiled the sun upon thee then, 

When forth — thy glory to behold — 

Gone mad with joy, came throngs of men 
Who happed thee round with cloth of gold ? 

A little playmate follows with the reply of the 
supposably sacred animal, in these pompous 
words : 

REPLY. 

If evil, or if good portent, 

O’errules my weary journeying. 

No ear to oracle was bent ; 

To rhythm of gold, bowed down the king. 

Is’t strange a monarch, ages dead, 

Should long once more to view his own ? 

And I, his bearer, should be led 
Within the shadow of his throne ? 

The name — I may not, will not tell — 

That he in earth-life proudly bore. 

Or if the chance that late befell 

He most may praise, or most deplore. 

To me — “The Glory of Siam,” 

A wand’rer now in foreign lands — 

Along the shore of fair Meinam 

There beckon still, imploring hands. 

And when at even the “faithful” pray. 

And mothers croon a sootheful song. 

Or priests, with incense, greet the day. 

They still will grieve for “Toung Taloung.” 


220 


BILLY 8 MOTHER. 


The event of the 
evening, however, 
is when Lillian 
comes from behind 
the improvised 
drop curtain, where 
she has been wait- 
ing for some min- 
utes for the signal, 
meanwhile think- 
ing over the old, 
sad times, when 
she comforted her- 
self by hoping for 
something akin to 
this. She makes 
so pretty a picture, 
leaning against a 
pillar, her book 
half closed, her 
eyes drooping, her 
silk dress falling 
so gracefully about 
her slender form, 
that Billy, Jr., sur- 
reptitiously makes 
a hasty sketch of 



the pose and drapery, 


billy’s mother. 


221 


afterward adding the face, and writing un- 
der it, '' A dream realized.” 

If Lillian’s manner and beauty are a sur- 
prise, her recitation is a much greater one. 
She had kept her resolution of writing to 
the lady whose genius had impressed her in 
her childhood. In response to the ingen- 
ue’s letter came a poem, based on an inci- 
dent of the West, and with the note append- 
ed, ''This is yours; do with it as you will. 
I will not offer it for publication until you 
decide if you like it for the purpose 
named.” And so it came that for the first 
time the listeners hear — 

NEVER AGAIN. 

I shall see her never again, Donald — 

Never again. 

My joy in life, my fair young wife — 

The thought so sad deepens my pain, Donald — 
Deepens my pain. 

On this last day, so far away, 

I shall see her never again, Donald — 

Never again. 

When the sun goes down in the West, Donald — 
Down in the West. 

To land unknown, my spirit flown. 

You’ll write that I am gone to rest, Donald — 


222 


billy’s mother. 


Am gone to rest. 

And how I prayed the hour be stayed, 

*Til she could lie on my true breast, Donald — 
On my true breast. 


The sun may shine through summer rain, Donald — 
Through summer rain. 

And life may cease, in wond’rous peace. 

Upon this lonely widespread plain, Donald — 

This widespread plain. 

There’s but one thought, with sorrow fraught, 

I’ll see her — Oh ! — never again, Donald — 

Never again. 


Unless it be in other lands, Donald — 

In other lands. 

Her soul-lit eyes, in paradise 

Will sometime grace the angel bands, Donald — 
The angel bands. 

Her voice in song, ’mid all the throng, 

Will sweetest be on those far strands, Donald — 
On those far strands. 

Here, where the stars are glinting down, Donald — 
Are glinting down. 

My wife so fair, with gold-brown hair. 

And love-lit face, and scented gown, Donald — 

And scented gown. 

I thought she came, and called my name ; 

And when I woke the sun was down, Donald — 

The sun was down. 


billy’s mother. 


223 


The moon that shines through crystal pane, Donald — 
Through crystal pane. 

And gilds her hair at even pray’r, 

Is shining o’er the night-wrapped plain, Donald — 
The night-wrapped plain. 

Thus joy were shared if I were spared ; 

I shall see her never again, Donald — 

Never again. 

Oh ! heard you e’er such sad refrain, Donald — 

Such sad refrain. 

The night birds cry, the wild brakes sigh 
In this strong wind that sweeps the plain, Donald — 
That sweeps the plain. 

The flow’rs so sweet seem to repeat — 

‘*I shall see her never again, Donald.” 

I soon shall be all free from pain, Donald — 

All free from pain. 

My limbs grow chill, with life’s last thrill ; 

My ears grow dull to wierd refrain, Donald — 

To wierd refrain. 

So ends my life — God keep my wife. 

I shall see her never again, Donald — 

Never again. 

‘‘You paid papa and mamma in their own 
coin, didn't you, Lill T says Master Danny, 
as they are all talking at once about their 
surprise at Lillian’s success. 

I enjoyed doing it, too,” she answers. 

“ Say, Lill, do you remember what you 


2 24 


billy’s mother. 


used to say sometimes when papa would do 
something unexpected.” 

“ Something very rude, no doubt,” she 
answers. “ I will not hear it,” and, put- 
ting her fingers to her ears she runs away. 

Billy intercepts her at the door, takes the 
little hands down, and calls, “ What was it, 
Dan ? ” 

“ Ther’s alius sumpthin’ good a happenin’ 
in this ere house, an’ there haint never 
nothin’ thet aint bang up nice, so there 
haint.” 

“ Oh ! that is what she said the day you 
voted, and papa gave you the big dinner,” 
puts in Albert, at which the tables are 
turned on Billy, Jr., who 
anticipates adding M.D. 
to his name at the ap- 
proaching college com- 
mencement, and, in conse- 
quence, attempts to be 
quite dignified. 

“ Thanksgiving only 
comes once a year,” said 
Billy, Jr., “and we do not all meet here 
every day. Let us have another hour to- 
gether. It is not late.” 



BILLY S MOTHER. 


225 


The fading fire is replenished. The 
three little ones make a pretty picture on 
the bright rug, where, pillowed on Ponto’s 
shaggy form, they have fallen asleep, the 
black, brown and blonde locks touching 
each other. 

There are stories by the older ones : 
grandma’s first, of her father’s house ; Mr. 
Cochrane’s, of Thanksgiving and plum pud- 
ding at sea ; Mrs. Cochrane’s, of school days; 
and then they all beseech Lillian for an- 
other proof of her talent. 

“I have a new piece,” she says, “written 
about that great picture, by R. C. Wood- 
ville. It is called “ Too late.” I will try it 
for you, if you like.” 

“Try it, my child,” encourages Mr. Coch- 
rane. 

In that wide parlor, her rich gown glist- 
ening against the maroon background, and 
the firelight shades dancing about her, she 
appears to better advantage than at the 
church. 

The sympathy of all the listening group 
is with her, and her success exceeds 
their expectations, as she vividly pictures 
the progress of the bride irorA the throne 


226 


billy’s mother. 


to the prison, and her subsequent homeless 
madness, in the perfect measure of the 
poem ' 

TOO LATE. 

Drive on ! Drive on ! !” The eager tone 
Above the windsprite’s dreary moan. 

And mourning trees of leafage bare 
Rings out upon the wintry air. 

While swift the wheels are rolling down, 

Toward an ancient seaport town 
(Beneath the castle’s haughty eye.) 

Unheeding storm, or night, they fly ; 

Unheeding how the wild wind raves 
Amid the fierce contending waves. 

On — on — they speed, toward the gates 
That bar the way, where freedom waits. 

While in the castle — revel free. 

Heeds neither storm, nor wind, nor sea. 

‘‘ The king ” forgets that scarce an hour 
Has passed away, since princely dower 
Was poured so freely at his feet. 

While just without the horses fleet. 

Were held in check, ’til he — ^Hhe king,” 

Might leave the press of signet ring 
On that white scroll, of import vast, 

To her whose plea was heard at last. 

A fair young bride in robes of state — 

Who cried, Oh ! sire, thy grace is great.” 


billy’s mother. 


Thou’rt free again, my liege,” she cried ; 
‘‘Once more shalt see thy loving bride.” 

And swiftly from the throne she fled. 

Nor veiled her proud and beauteous head. 
As from the gaily lighted hall 
Her eager footsteps noiseless fall ; 

Nor cares that she hath bartered all — 

Her dowry fair to break his thrall. 

She bids him “ speed ” who holds the rein, 
Lest all her work shall be in vain. 

“Drive on ! ” she cries, “ the prison gate 
Will ope to me, e’er ’tis too late.” 

“ Drive on ! Drive on ! The prison gate — 
Seek thou in haste, be not too late.” 

And through the gloom that leadeth dawn. 
With eager eyes, and cheeks grown wan. 

The bride is speeding far and fast. 

Nor knows if cot or hedge is past ; 

Nor heeds the winds that rudely blow, 

Nor cares for chill of falling snow. 

“ The king has heard at last my plea. 

And sealed the words that make him free ; 
My liege, within the prison gates. 

Drive on ! ” she cried ; “ Be not too late ! ” 

“ Drive on ! Drive on ! ” The eager feet 
Were never known to be so fleet. 

In answer to her plaintive cry. 

O’er that white waste they seemed to fly ; 
But blinding storm, and searching chill. 
Were conquering fast obedient will. 


2 28 billy’s mother. 

And at the portal, in the wall, 

They halt, and moan, and dying fall ; 

While she, in shim’ring satin train — 

The ponderous knocker plies in vain. 

And prays the while — Thy grace is great — 
Grant me. Oh ! Lord — Fm not too late.” 

Awake ! Awake ! This ponderous gate 
Will turn so slow, I shall be late. 

For oh ! the dawn is drawing nigh ; 

At dawn my liege is doomed to die. 

Awake ! Oh ! men within this wall ; 

Oh ! hear you not my frenzied call.” 

Then comes the measured soldier tread, 

And bolts are drawn, and she is led 
Within the portal strong and high. 

Just when the sun illumes the sky — 

And then she hears — Thy woe is great; 

For thou art come — alas ! too late.” 

“Too late ! Too late ! Say not too late, 

I reach at last, the prison gate. 

His pardon — here — good man behold — 

Oh ! break the seal, and quick unfold — 
Here ! see you not. The king’s own seal 
Declares the prisoner’s heart is leal. 

Unsay thy words — I’m not too late ; 

It cannot be my cruel fate. 

I am his bride, who love him so. 

To brave the night, and cold, and snow. 

To bring his pardon to the gate — 

And now, thou sayst — I am — too — late ? ” 


billy’s mother. 


229 


! me ; ah ! me— his mine the fate--- 
To tell thee true — Thou art — too late. 

E’er came the sun up yonder sky, 

Thy bridegroom was led out to die ; 

And kneeling on the coffin lid, 

With eyes from all the world close hid ; 

His lips breathed out an earnest pray’r. 

Not for himself, for thee — his care. 

He met his death with spirit brave 
And now — they bear him to his grave, 

E’en as thou comest through the gate. 

Alas ! Alas ! Thou art too late ! ” 

No words, no'tears — she seemed to wait. 

To hear the words — ^‘Thou’rt not too late.” 
A hue more strange than that of death. 

Her face unveiled, and faint her breath. 
Passed o’er the pale and beauteous lips. 

As fell unclasped her finger tips ; 

Then stranger hands a burden fair 
Bore onward with most tender care. 

And laid upon the soldier’s bed. 

With face grown pale as his — ^just dead ; 
With record of the name and date. 

Is writ, His pardon came — too late.” 

Drive fast, drive fast, be not too late ; 

Oh ! near we not the prison gate ? ” 

These words her first when morning came. 
And touched the snow with lambent flame ; 
The morn beyond that awesome day. 
Through which in death-like swoon she lay, 


230 


BILLY S MOTHER. 


The morn that smiled on crown of white, 
Where ebon locks reigned yester’ night ; 

The light from out her eyes had flown, 

Her words were lost in broken moan, 

Save in the plea, Oh ! do not wait ; 

I fear — Oh ! sire, I shall be late.’* 

Alone she passed without the gate. 

Unknowing more — how cruel fate 
Held fast the wheels, with bands of snow ; 
And through the snow, they moved too slow — 
When bravely through the night she came, 

To save her liege from death of shame. 

The years go by and leave their trace 
O’er all the changed, and ageing face ; 

But never gleam of reason’s light 
Breaks through the strange unending night, 
Beginning at the prison gate — 

Whereto — alas ! she came too late.” 

So dark, and close, the mystic veil, 

Where through she peers, and croons her tale, 
The pardon clasped close to her breast. 

No hand, the missive e’er will wrest, 

From out the quaint, and guarding fold. 

The words are dim — the page grown old, 

The price she paid in jewels rare 
She knows not now, nor could she care. 

But ever when the snow falls down. 

She wanders through the seaport town, 

And seeks to And the prison gate,” 

And croons, so low — I’m not too late.” 


billy's mother. 


231 


Drive on ! Drive on ! ” The tones so clear, 
Fall oft in sleep upon the ear, 

Of him who held the reins as guide 
Through all that long and fateful ride 
Still to “ my lady ’’ — once so fair — 

He, of his pittance, doles a share. 

From out the night of fear, and storm. 

He came with bent and crippled form ; 

And ever when his lips repeat 
The tale of triumph and defeat — 

“ I brought her safely to the gate,” 

He says, and sighs — But ah ! too late.” 

After the congratulations they gather 
about the piano, and while Jennie plays, 
they all unite in that never old, always 
impressive doxology, ''Praise God, from 
whom all blessings flow." Good-night’s 
are spoken softly, the mothers gather up 
their little ones, leaving Ponto to guard 
the dying fire, and night, peace and quiet 
reign over the household. 

****:!:** 

Good Billy Cochrane enjoys life to the 
fullest possible extent, his only care being 
to make all around him happy and useful, 
an ambition in which he reaches greater 
success than is accorded to the generality 
of ambitions. 


232 billy’s mother. 

When, as is not infrequently the case, 
some neighbor, half in earnest, half in jest, 
says to him, “You are rather soft, I take 
it, to allow yourself to be so loaded, up with 
all the poor people your mother ever knew.” 
He makes answer : 

“ I know where my money goes now, 
and reap a part of the benefit of my in- 
vestments myself. You, who donate your 
thousands to public charities have only one 
pleasure, where I have many. I see the 
good seed spring up, bud, and blossom, and 
give of its fruit. Your money may go into 
quicksand, for all you know.” And having 
faith in his own methods of doing good, he 
persists in it, countenanced by his wife and 
mother. 

There is not on the continent of America 
to-day a happier household than that of 
which this simple story is written. 

“ The smell of the sea ” is still very 
attractive to “ Billy Cochrane,” and he 
takes an occasional sail almost “ out of 
sight of land.” He loves a chat with an 
old shipmate now and again, and his dues 
to the Sailors’ Mutual Benefit Societies are 
promptly paid. “ I have cast anchor here,” 


billy’s mother. 


233 


he says frequently, '' and find my home the 
pleasantest, tidiest harbor I have ever 
made.” 

'' The soft spot ” in his heart has not 
been seared or calloused by prosperity. 
^'Billy’s mother” is the same kind, impul- 
sive, winsome woman, who years ago claim- 
ed the love of every one who knew her, 
and, rejuvenated by the influences of her 
new home, she bids fair to live many years, 
blessing and being blessed in the work of 
her kind hands and pure heart. 

THE END. 




. ■ :^;v- t i , '-;;.4 ;:;,V5: ■ ■ ■■ ' 

^■-- '.v^’ •■,■.- V''?.>" i'' C^' -■ ^ ■'. '■,- v -. '■ ■ - ■ - '•. ■ •- 

»*/ *^. • -. ,. <*•.■- v' -,»■«• .W- -• , .* 

^ ■,-. * I'o ' W ‘ »A*'‘ .- jw.-*r /-'>■>' ** ' • - ’t ' ' j,.' ' ' y f ' ^.'r' ' — , .••»#*.'- 


t w ■ K ^ 

•,.. A " . TXg^' • * v*‘jt. I^A' 

- ■•. • ?: /-O' ^MJ. >r A 



■'. *. ' 


'•, < . 


'■^ . S' '^;-'V'‘'^ 'T-.s'. ''■' ' ,', 

9 S^ ^ V .. •» • . k 

\ c- . >4 V.--Vf.'S' 

t»i.i kw*-." ** ♦; r^* U 


r . 


-Si 


f^i4sS:-.":^v&4v,A:4; 

• vv^ ' ' ,'.> >■= . -'. •>■» “» '.• . ^ 


‘k. 





•' v.,T 


i 

K 


\ . 

#• J 


C 



’c« •»'•*. ■ » ► ^“ '• » ' 

• • .0^ ^ ' rTi^-^ *. - ••# f* 

>»i;} 



k I .-t'\.i 


Bc:'V:'.'^ ' - s ■ • - ■ ■ A; • -. .--v,..’ .-r-. ;. 

- Jeaaa^ ; ; ■’ ,. ./ . • ' ■ . •• '' -v^; - • .-• 


.•’V-.-Z’- ■" •--.- .' ■■*■• ' .•■ • ;••-/■ • 

^ ' »- >»*'-. '. . -/-v ■ ■■ “* - 

' • • •'*•«'' Vk "'»-..•'•■<< - "* 1 '■ *"» w- * '. ■' s 

V -:?■: -- >yF’ . ' ''-'y '. ■ 

. ■ - ^* ' A *4 Ww /- /» * I . - * r 




V •' - - *'f .. • ^’ t^V ‘ * ■ " 

' • -■ :/l' '•'•'/■ 'y»-y ; ^ •-.'*•- 

i'Y . '■ • A ..' '• . ‘ 


*■ k^'-^ 

^v.7 


W 

4' 

•N * 


iy-i/n 


-3 



f •. 


. . .. - • y:> , .:; 




x - 


V.W*’ 




l-‘ . -0 ' ■ ^ f ■ ■ ' ”' *■■ 

lu®> r '■ / ••’-' -w*-'. J 'V •^- ■- *“ » 

^ im u y . — 


■/•"S 

*■ 


, * 




I , 


, • • ■■ ' ; • >; ^ : 

' . ' . t ' .•?; 

- • .'■ ‘‘-^y --j^ 

,,■>■. A,-.-, ".•' . 


• •■ 


k^.,,/;^'.V>' ;..V/ ‘V:,- -'V ; 

t-c • •'I’c'' ’<^7. ■" ' . '» . %■ • •■ 




. X / A. 



^k- 


'■^' ^-‘ ■ -r'' 

r7?|^ ■• -.7; .' 4A. ■,. 

-7’ '"s-' ■ *’ ■•'.' /<■, "■■ 

^ -7-^ ■..7-.- ■. ,>:, . 7 

-.'■ •■■"■' 7 * , 7 ' • V C' 

: ■* '- ■ - ■ ^ .' **i-r *--«•.* --s ' • • .••■/••’' V' • ' 

^ ■' ■■■■"•-?'• ’ ' :■■ . ■ - 




“• *■ • , -r rj 

*.-: ' , ' -\v 7S_rf»/7* v'- ♦ . N' 





.} . 

y;.- ^ ^ 

< . 


- r 


- .<• 



A WONDERFITL OFFER ! 

ilo.oo -w-bisTiH 


-♦♦ 4 - 


We desire to call the attention of lovers of pure fiction to the tact 
iat we now offer, in bound book forniy the following complete stones 
dtten by some of the most popular and pleasing authors in the 
orid, and which are usually sold, in book form, for from $1.25 to 
[|.5oeach. They are printed from large type, on handsome, heavy 
^per, and beautifully bound in cloth, with gold side and back stamp 
►It $1.50, or bound in heavy paper cover for only $1.00. In ordering 
ijam please specify which number you want, and the name of the 
pthor. They are sold by every newsdealer and bookseller in the 
Fnited States, or will be mailed by the publishers on receipt of price 

^omethingf to Read« No. I, Heavy paper 

j cover, $1.00 i bound in cloth $150 

Contains the following seven comolete stories by Mrs. Henry Wood ' 

Lynne, A Life’s Secret, The Tale of Sin, Was He Severe ? The 
Lost Bank Note, The Doctor’s Daughter, The Haunted Tower. 

^omettling^ to Read. No. a. Heavy paper 

! cover, $i.oo; bound in cloth 1 . 5 C 

Contains the following seven complete stories by Miss M. E. Braddon : 
e^iy Audley’s Secret, The Octoroon, The Cloven Foot, His Secret, A 
havering Image, The Wages of Sin, Aurora Floyd, 
i 

lometlling' to Read. No. 3 . Heavy paj^er 

cover, $1,00: bound in cloth 1.50 

Contains the following seven complete stories by Bertha M. Clay : 
l&bra Thorne, A Golden Heart, Hilda, Wedded and Parted, Hilary’s 
f^lly, The Cost of Her Love, A Gilded Sin. 

ometllillSf to Read. No. 4 . Heavy paper 

cover, $1.00.; bound in cloth... 1.50 

Contains the following ten complete stories by Mary Cecil Hay : 
j Shadow on the Threshold, A Dark Inheritance, Back to the Old 
Wome, Victor and Vanquished, The Sorrow of a Secret, In the Holi- 
es, Under Life’s Key, Into the Shade, Brenda Yorke, Missing. 
il ' " 

' No such amount of reading matter was ever offered before for so 

■[mail an amount of money. Ask your bookseller to get “ Something 
Read ” for you, or send us the money and we will forward them by 
turn mail. We will send a copy of each, Number i, 2, 3, and 4, 
und in cloth, to any address, post-paid, on receipt of $5.00. Send 
ioney by P. O. Order or registered letter, and address 

J. S. & CO., Publishers, 

Bor 276 ?*'. 31 Rose Street, New 


w w t',- 


YOUMAN’S/-/'^. 

(^.A57‘A 


DICTIONAR 


\ 


OF 


'A 


Every-Day Wants. 


Containing 20,000 Receipts in Every Department of Human 

Effort. 


BY A. E. YOUMAN, M. B. 

lyal Octavo, 530 Pages. Price in Clotl, $4.00; Leainer, $4.75 


$100 a Year Saved to all who Fcseess and Head this Book ! 


No hot X of greater value was ever offered to Agents to sell. The following 
list of trades and professions are fully represeiiteJ, and information of great 
value given in caich department. Our 16-page circular, giving full. description, Bout 
free to any address. 


Clerks, 

Lumber Dealers, 

Hardware Dealers, 

Watchraaki'rs, 

Bookkeepers, 

Miners, 

Engravers, 

Dyers, 

Farmers, 

Opticians, 

Furriers, 

Coopers, 

Stock-raisers, 

Wliitewashers, 

Glaziers, 

Coppersmiths, 

Gardeners, 

Soapmakers, 

Grocers, 

Machinists, 

Florists, 

Trappers, 

Hotel Keepers, 

Curriers, 

Builders, 

Tinsmiths, 

Iron Workers, 

Doctors, 

Merchants, 

Cnhinetraakers, 

Authors, 

Egg Dealers, 

j)ruggists. 

Housekeepers, 

Nurses, 

Electrotypers, 

Photographers, 

Bankers, 

Perfumers, 

Fish Dealers, 

Architects, 

Barbers, 

Roofers, 

Gas Burners, 

Artists, 

Inspectors, 

Storectypers, 

Glove Cleaners, 

Bakers, 

Bookbinders, 

Tanners, 

Gunsmiths, 

Confectioners, 

Gliders, 

Varnishers, 

Hucksters, 

Engineers, 

Painters, 

Cooks, 

Lithographers, 

Flour Dealers, 

Shoemakers, 

Builders, 

Milliners, 

Glass Workers, 

Clothiers, 

Dairymen, 

Dentists, 

Hair Dressers, 

Dressmakers, 

Carpenters, 

Plasterers, 

Hatters, 

Dry Goods Dealers, 

Carvers, 

Scourers, 

Ink Makers, 

Brewers, 

Jewelers, 

Tailors, 


We want Agents everywhere to sell this invaluable work, to whom we offer 
hig pay. A copy of the book will he sent by mail, postpaid, to any address, Kpon 
receipt of price. For agents’ terms, territory, and fm-tlier particulars, address 


J. S. OGILYIE & CO., Publishers, 

P. 0. Box 2767. 31 Rose Steeet, New York. 


4 



.1 


' >-'■ 







T • 


^ • I ' ■ , . ■ ' 


'I ■ 

' ■( 

t \ . 

' 

i 

* 

1 * 

■{ ■ : 

" . 



»- 










